CHAPTER III

THAT BOY

Williamhad gone away with his family for a holiday, and he was not enjoying it. For one reason it was not the sea. Last summer they had gone to the sea and William had enjoyed it. He had several times been rescued from a watery grave by passers-by. He had lost several pairs of new shoes and stockings by taking them off among the rocks and then roaming so far afield barefoot that he forgot where he had left them and so came home without them. He got wet through every day as a matter of course. Through the house where his family stayed his track was marked by a trail of sand and seaweed and small deceased crabs. He had upon one occasion floated out to sea in a boat which he had found on the beach and loosened from its moorings, and narrowly escaped being run down by a steamer. At the end of the holiday by the sea Mrs. Brown had said weakly, "Let it be somewhere inland next year."

William found things monotonous inland. There were no crabs and nothing to do. Robert and Ethel, his grown-up brother and sister, had joined a tennis club and were out all day. Not that William had much use for Robert and Ethel. He preferred them out all day as a matter of fact.

"All I sayis," he said aggrievedly to his mother,"that no one cares whether I'm havin' a nice time or not. You think that s' long as father can go golfin'—ortryin'to golf—and those two playin' tennis—or what theycalltennis"—he added scornfully, "and you can sit knittin', it's allright. You don't think ofme. No one thinks of me. I might just as well not be here. All I sayis," he ended, "I might jus' as well bedeadfor all the trouble some people take to make me happy."

His mother looked at his scowling freckled countenance.

"Well, dear," she said, "there are plenty of books about the house that you haven't read."

"Books," said William scornfully. "Sir Walter Scott's ole things—I don't call thatbooks."

"You can go for walks."

"Walks!" said William. "It's no use goin' walks without 'Jumble'."

His father lowered his newspaper. "Your arithmetic report was vile," he said. "You might occupy your time with a few sums. I'll set them for you."

William turned upon his parent a glance before which most men would have quailed. Even William's father, inured as he was by long experience to that glare of William's, retired hastily behind his paper. Then, with a short and bitter laugh, William turned on his heel and left the room. That was the last straw. He'd finished with them. He'd simply finished with them.

He put his head in at the window as he went towards the gate.

"I'm goin' out, mother," he said in a voice which expressed stern sorrow rather than anger.

"All right, dear," said Mrs. Brown sweetly.

"I may not be coming back—never," he added darkly.

"All right, dear," said William's mother.

William walked with slow dignity down to the gate.

"All I sayis," he remarked pathetically to the gatepost as he passed, "I might as well bedeadfor all anyone thinks of tryin' to make my life a bit happier."

He walked down to the village—a prey to black dejection. What people came away for holidaysforbeat him. At home there was old Jumble to take for a walk and throw sticks for, and the next-door cat to tease and the butcher's boy to fight, and various well-known friends and enemies to make life interesting. Here there was—well, all he saidwas, he might as well bedead.

A char-à-banc stood outside the post-office, and people were taking their places in it. William looked at it contemptuously. He began to listen in a bored fashion to the conversation of two young men.

"I'm awfully glad you ran down," one of them was saying to the other; "we can have a good tramp together. To tell you the truth I'd got so bored that I'd taken a ticket for this char-à-banc show.... Can't stand 'em really."

"Will they give you your money back?" said the other.

"It doesn't matter," said the first.

Then he met William's dark, unflinching gaze and said carelessly, "Here, kid, like a ticket for the char-à-banc trip?"

William considered the question. Anything that would take him away from the immediate vicinity of his family seemed at that moment desirable.

"Does it come back?" he said.

"It'ssupposedto," said the young man.

"ALL I SAYIS," WILLIAM SAID PUGNACIOUSLY, TRYINGTO SCOWL UP AT BOTH SIDES AT ONCE, "THAT THERE'SNOT MUCHROOM."

That seemed rather a drawback. William felt that he would have preferred to go away from his family on something that did not come back. However, this was better than nothing.

"All right," he said graciously, "I don't mind going."

The young man handed him the ticket.

******

William sat in the middle of a seat between a very fat lady and a very fat gentleman.

"Not muchroom," he remarked bitterly to the world in general.

The fat lady and the fat gentleman turned crushing glances upon him simultaneously. William received and returned them. He even enlarged upon his statement.

"All I sayis," he said pugnaciously, trying to scowl up at both sides at once, "that there's not muchroom."

The fat lady put up lorgnettes and addressed the fat gentleman over William's head.

"What a very rude little boy!" she said.

Being apparently agreed upon that point they became friendly and conversed together for the rest of the journey, ignoring the subterranean rumbles of indignation that came from the small boy between them.

At last the char-à-banc stopped at a country village. The driver explained that the church was an excellent example of Early Norman architecture. This left William cold. He did not even glance at it. The driver went on to remark that an excellent meal could be obtained at the village inn. Here William's expression kindled into momentary animation only to fade again into despair. For William had spent his last twopence that morning upon a stick of liquorice. It had caused a certain amount of friction between himself and his elder brother. William had put it—partially sucked—upon a chair while he went to wash his hands, and Robert had come in fromtennis and inadvertently sat down upon it. Being in a moist condition it had adhered to Robert's white flannel trousers. Even when detached the fact of its erstwhile adherence could not be concealed. William had considered Robert's attitude entirely unreasonable.

"Well, I don't know what he's got to be mad about.... I didn't make him sit down on it, did I? He talks about me spoilin' his trousers—well, wot about him spoilin' my liquorice? All I sayis—who wants to eat it, now he's been sittin' on it?"

Robert had unkindly taken this statement at its face value and thrown the offending stick of liquorice into the fire.

William sadly extricated himself from the char-à-banc, thinking bitterly of the vanished twopence, and liquorice, and the excellent meal to be obtained from the village inn. He regarded himself at that moment as a martyr whose innocence and unjust persecution equalled that of any in the pages of the Church History book.

An elderly lady inpince-nezlooked at him pityingly.

"What's the matter, little boy?" she said. "You look unhappy."

William merely smiled bitterly.

"Is your mother with you?" she went on.

"Nope," said William, thrusting his hands into his pockets and scowling still more.

"Your father, then?"

"Huh!" said William, as though bitterly amused at the idea.

"You surely haven't come alone!" said the lady.

William gave vent to the dark emotions of his soul.

"All I sayis," he said, "that if you knew my family you'd be jolly glad to go anywhere alone if you was me."

The lady made little clicking noises with her tongue expressive of sorrow and concern.

"Dear, dear, dear!" she said. "And are you going to have tea now?"

William assumed his famous expression of suffering patience.

"I've got no money. It's not much use goin' to have tea anywhere when you haven't got no money."

"Haven't they given you any money for your tea?" said the lady indignantly.

"Notthey!" said William with a bitter laugh. "Theywun't of let me come if they'd known.Theywun't of paid anything for me. It was a frien' gave me the ticket jus' to giv' me a bit of pleasure," he said pathetically, "buttheywun't even give me money for my tea."

"Perhaps," said the lady, "you had a late lunch and they thought——"

"Huh!" ejaculated William. "I din' haveanylunch worth speakin' of." He thrust aside the mental picture of two helpings of steak and three of rice pudding.

"Youpoorchild," said the lady. "Come along.I'llgive you your tea."

"Thanks," said William humbly and gratefully, trudging off with her in the direction of the village inn.

He felt torn between joy at the immediate prospect of a meal and pity for his unhappy home life. William, generally speaking, had only to say a thing to believe it. He saw himself now as thepersecuted victim of a cruel and unsympathetic family, and the picture was not without a certain pleasure. William enjoyed filling the centre of the stage in any capacity whatsoever.

"LITTLE BOY," SHE SAID SOULFULLY, "YOU MUSTTELL MEALL.... IF I REPORTED THE CASE TO THESOCIETY FOR PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TOCHILDREN——"

"I suppose," said the lady uncertainly, as William consumed boiled eggs with relish, "that your family arekind to you."

"You needn't s'pose that," said William, his mouth full of bread-and-butter, his scowling gaze turned on her lugubriously. "You jus' needn't s'pose that. Not withmyfamily."

"They surely aren'tcruelto you?" said the lady in horror.

"Crule," said William with a shudder, "jus' isn't the word. All I sayis, crule isn't the word."

The lady leant across the table.

"Little boy," she said soulfully, "you must tell meall. I want tohelpyou. I go about the world helping people, and I'm going to help you. Don't be frightened. You know people can be put in prison for being cruel to children. If I reported the case to the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children——"

William was slightly taken aback.

"Oh, I wun't like you to do that!" he said hastily. "I wun't like to get them into trouble."

"Ah," she said, "but you must think of your happiness, not theirs!"

She watched, fascinated, as William finished a third plate of bread-and-butter, and yet his hunger seemed to be unappeased. She was not acquainted with the digestive capacity of an average healthy boy of eleven.

"I can see you've been starved," she said, "and I could tell at once from your expression that you were unhappy. Have you any brothers and sisters?"

William, who had now reached the second stage of his tea, put half a cake into his mouth, masticated and swallowed it before replying.

"Two," he said briefly, "one each. Grown up. But they jus' care for nothin' but their own pleasure. Why," he went on warming to his theme, "this morning I bought a few sweets with jus' a bit of money I happened to have, an' he took them from me and threw them into the fire. Jus' threw them into the fire."

The lady made the sympathetic clicking sound with her tongue.

"Dear! dear! dear!" she said again. "How very unkind!"

William somewhat reluctantly refused the last piece of cake. He had, as a matter of fact, done full justice to the excellent meal provided by the village inn. It had given him a feeling of gentle, contented melancholy. He was basking in the thought of his unhappy home life.

"I'm sorry to keep reminding you of it," said the lady, "but I feel I really want to get to the bottom of it. There's generally only one explanation of an unhappy home. I've investigated so many cases. Does your father drink?"

William nodded sadly.

"Yes," he said. "That's it."

"Oh," breathed the lady, "yourpoormother!"

But William wanted no division of sympathy.

"Mother drinks, too," he said.

"Youpoor, poor child!" said the lady.

William wondered whether to make Robert and Ethel drink, too, then decided not to. As an artist he knew the value of restraint.

"Never mind," said the lady, "you shall haveonehappy afternoon, at any rate."

She took him to the village shop and bought him chocolates, and sweets, and bananas, and a top. William found some difficulty in retaining an expression suggestive of an unhappy home life, but he managed it fairly successfully.

He began to feel very sleepy on the way home. He had had a lovely time. His pockets were full of sweets and chocolates, and he held his top in his hand. He even felt that he could forgive his family.He'd heap coals of fire on Robert's head by giving him a chocolate.... He was almost asleep when the char-à-banc drew up at the post-office. Everyone began to descend. He took a polite and distant farewell of the elderly lady and set off for his home. But he found that the elderly lady was coming with him.

"Where do you live?" she said.

"Oh," said William vaguely, "jus' somewhere along here."

"I'm coming to see your father," said the lady in a determined voice.

William was aghast.

"Oh—er—I wun't do that if I was you!" he said.

"I often find," she said, "that a drunkard does not realise what unhappiness he makes in his home. I often find that a few words of warning are taken to heart——"

"You'd betternot," said William desperately. "He dun't mindwothe does! He'd throw knives at you or shoot you or cut your head off soon as not. He'll be jus' mad drunk when we get in. He went off to the public-house jus' after breakfast. You'd better not comenearour house.... All I sayis, you might jus' as well bedeadas coming to our house."

"But what about you?"

"Oh, I'm used to it," said William valiantly. "I don't mind. Please, you'd better not come," he urged. "I'm thinkin' ofyou——"

"I shan't feel that I've done my duty till I've at any rate tried to make him see his sin."

They were in the street now in which William's family were living. William looked pale and desperate. Matters seemed to have gone beyond his control. Suddenly he had an idea. He would lead her past the house and on and on till one orother of them dropped from fatigue. She'd have to go home some time. She couldn't go on all night. He could say he'd forgotten where he lived. He began to dislike her intensely. Fussy ole thing! Believing everything everyone said to her! Interfering with other people's drunken fathers! He was creeping cautiously and silently past his house by the side of his unsuspecting companion, when a shrill cry reached him.

"William! Hi! William! Where have you been? Mother says come in at once!"

It was Ethel leaning out of an upstairs window. The sight of her pretty white-clad figure brought no pleasure to her brother's heart. He put out his tongue at her and sadly opened the garden gate.

"You'd better not come in," he said faintly to his companion, in a last feeble attempt to avert the catastrophe which Fate seemed determined to bring upon him, "he getsvilentabout this time of day."

With firm set lips his companion followed him.

"I must do myduty," she said sternly.

******

Mr. Brown looked up from the evening paper as his younger son entered. At first he merely noticed that his younger son looked unusually sheepish. Then he noticed that his son was followed by a tall, thin lady of prim appearance and uncertain age, wearingpince-nez. Mr. Brown groaned inwardly. Had William killed her cat or merely broken one of her windows?

"Er—good evening," he said.

"Good evening," said the visitor. "I have been spending the afternoon with your little boy."

Mr. Brown sent William a speaking glance. He didn't mind what caricatures William picked upoutside the house, but he wished he'd keep them there. William refused to meet his father's glance. He sat on the edge of a chair looking rather pale, his cap in his hand, measuring with his eye the distance between the chair and the half-open door.

"Very kind of you," murmured Mr. Brown.

"He has told me something of the state of things in his home," burst out the visitor. "I saw at once that he was unhappy and half-starved."

Mr. Brown's jaw dropped. William very slowly and cautiously tiptoed to the door.

"He told me about you and his mother. I was sure—I am sure—that you don't realise what you are doing—what your—er—failing—means to this innocent child."

Mr. Brown raised a hand to his brow.

"Your conscience, you see," said the visitor triumphantly, "troubles you. Why should the memory of childhood mean to that dear boy blows and curses and unkindness—and just because you are a slave to your baser appetites?"

Mr. Brown removed his hand from his brow.

"You'll pardon my interrupting you," he said feebly, "but perhaps you would be good enough to give me some slight inkling of what you are talking about."

"Ah, youknow," she said fervently, "in your soul—in your conscience—you know! Why pretend to me? I have had that dear child's company all afternoon and know what he has suffered." Here Mrs. Brown entered and the visitor turned to her. "And you," she went on, "you must be his mother. Can't you—won't you—give it up for the sake of your child?" Her voice quivered with emotion.

"I think, my dear," said Mr. Brown, "that you had better send for a doctor. This lady is not well."

"But whoisshe?" said Mrs. Brown.

"I don't know," said her husband; "she's someone William found."

The someone William found flung out her arms.

"Won't you?" she cried eloquently. "Can't you—for the sake of your own happiness as well as his—give it up?"

They stared at her.

"Madam," said Mr. Brown despairingly, "what do you wish us to give up?"

"Drink," she answered dramatically.

Mr. Brown sat down heavily.

"Drink!" he echoed.

Mrs. Brown gave a little scream.

"Drink!" she said. "But we're both teetotalers."

It was the turn of the visitor to sit down heavily.

"Surely," she said, "that boy did not deceive me!"

"Madam," said that boy's father bitterly, "it is more than probable."

******

When the visitor, protesting, apologising, expostulating, and still not quite convinced, had been escorted to the door and seen off the premises, Mr. Brown turned grimly to his wife.

"Now," he said, "where is that boy?"

But a long and energetic search of house and garden failed to reveal any traces of him. It was not till an hour later that William, inspired more by the pangs of hunger than by pangs of conscience, emerged from the boot cupboard in the kitchen and surrendered himself to justice.

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