Just William Part 39

"It's a knack you aren't likely to acquire by practice on this instrument," he said drily.

William wandered out into the garden and looked sadly up at the garden wall. But The Little Girl Next Door was away and could offer no sympathy, even if he climbed up to his precarious seat on the top. Fate was against him in every way. With a deep sigh he went out of the garden gate and strolled down the road disconsolately, hands in pockets.

Life stretched empty and uninviting before him without his bow and arrow. And Ginger would have his bow and arrow, Henry would have his bow and arrow, Douglas would have his bow and arrow. He, William, alone would be a thing apart, a social outcast, a boy without a bow and arrow; for bows and arrows were the fas.h.i.+on. If only one of the others would break a window or hit a silly old cat that hadn't the sense to keep out of the way.

He came to a stile leading into a field and took his seat upon it dejectedly, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Life was simply not worth living.

"A rotten old cat!" he said aloud, "a rotten old cat!--and didn't even hurt it. It--it made a fuss--jus' out of spite, screamin' and carryin'

on! And windows!--as if gla.s.s wasn't cheap enough--and easy to put in. I could--I could mend 'em myself--if I'd got the stuff to do it. I----" He stopped. Something was coming down the road. It came jauntily with a light, dancing step, fox-terrier ears c.o.c.ked, retriever nose raised, collie tail wagging, slightly dachshund body a-quiver with the joy of life.

It stopped in front of William with a glad bark of welcome, then stood eager, alert, friendly, a mongrel unashamed.

"Rats! Fetch 'em out!" said William idly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: IT STOPPED IN FRONT OF WILLIAM WITH A GLAD BARK OF WELCOME.]

It gave a little spring and waited, front paws apart and crouching, a waggish eye upraised to William. William broke off a stick from the hedge and threw it. His visitor darted after it with a shrill bark, took it up, worried it, threw it into the air, caught it, growled at it, finally brought it back to William and waited, panting, eager, unmistakably grinning, begging for more.

William's drooping spirits revived. He descended from his perch and examined its collar. It bore the one word "Jumble."

"Hey! Jumble!" he called, setting off down the road.

Jumble jumped up around him, dashed off, dashed back, worried his boots, jumped up at him again in wild, eager friends.h.i.+p, dashed off again, begged for another stick, caught it, rolled over with it, growled at it, then chewed it up and laid the remains at William's feet.

"Good ole chap!" said William encouragingly. "Good ole Jumble! Come on, then."

Jumble came on. William walked through the village with a self-conscious air of proud yet careless owners.h.i.+p, while Jumble gambolled round his heels.

Every now and then he would turn his head and whistle imperiously, to recall his straying _protege_ from the investigation of ditches and roadside. It was a whistle, commanding, controlling, yet withal careless, that William had sometimes practised privately in readiness for the blissful day when Fate should present him with a real live dog of his own. So far Fate, in the persons of his father and mother, had been proof against all his pleading.

William pa.s.sed a blissful morning. Jumble swam in the pond, he fetched sticks out of it, he shook himself violently all over William, he ran after a hen, he was chased by a cat, he barked at a herd of cows, he pulled down a curtain that was hanging out in a cottage garden to dry--he was mischievous, affectionate, humorous, utterly irresistible--and he completely adopted William. William would turn a corner with a careless swagger and then watch breathlessly to see if the rollicking, frisky little figure would follow, and always it came tearing eagerly after him.

William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a newspaper. Mr.

Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.

"William," said Mrs. Brown, "I do wish you'd be in time, and I do wish you'd brush your hair before you come to table."

William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.

"No, Ethel dear, I didn't know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear, _do_ sit still. Have they moved in yet?"

"Yes," said Ethel, "they've taken it furnished for two months, I think.

Oh, my goodness, just _look_ at William's hands!"

William put his hands under the table and glared at her.

"Go and wash your hands, dear," said Mrs. Brown patiently.

For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William's mother.

It had taught her patience.

William rose reluctantly.

"They're not dirty," he said in a tone of righteous indignation. "Well, anyway, they've been dirtier other times and you've said nothin'. I can't be _always_ was.h.i.+n' them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an' if you keep on was.h.i.+n' it only makes them worse an'----"

Ethel groaned and William's father lowered his paper. William withdrew quickly but with an air of dignity.

"And just _look_ at his boots!" said Ethel as he went. "Simply caked; and his stockings are soaking wet--you can see from here. He's been right _in_ the pond by the look of him and----"

William heard no more. There were moments when he actively disliked Ethel.

He returned a few minutes later, s.h.i.+ning with cleanliness, his hair brushed back fiercely off his face.

"His _nails_," murmured Ethel as he sat down.

"Well," said Mrs. Brown, "go on telling us about the new people.

William, do hold your knife properly, dear. Yes, Ethel?"

William finished his meal in silence, then brought forth his momentous announcement.

"I've gotter dog," he said with an air of importance.

"What sort of a dog?" and "Who gave it to you?" said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.

"No one gave it me," he said. "I jus' got it. It began following me this morning an' I couldn't get rid of it. It wouldn't go, anyway. It followed me all round the village an' it came home with me. I couldn't get rid of it, anyhow."

"Where is it now?" said Mrs. Brown anxiously.

"In the back garden."

Mr. Brown folded up his paper.

"Digging up my flower-beds, I suppose," he said with despairing resignation.

"He's tied up all right," William rea.s.sured him. "I tied him to the tree in the middle of the rose-bed."

"The rose-bed!" groaned his father. "Good Lord!"

"Has he had anything to eat?" demanded Robert sternly.

"Yes," said William, avoiding his mother's eye. "I found a few bits of old things for him in the larder."

William's father took out his watch and rose from the table.

"Well, you'd better take it to the Police Station this afternoon," he said shortly.

"The Police Station!" repeated William hoa.r.s.ely. "It's not a _lost_ dog.

It--it jus' doesn't belong to anyone, at least it didn't. Poor thing,"

feelingly. "It--it doesn't want _much_ to make it happy. It can sleep in my room an' jus' eat sc.r.a.ps."