CHAPTER XIII
WILLIAM'S HELPING HAND
Williamwas on his way to visit his new friend. He whistled as he went, his lips pursed determinedly, his brows drawn into a scowl of absorption, his untidy hair standing, like a somewhat unsaintly halo, round his head. When William whistled, he could be heard a long way off. It was an affair of great effort and concentration. It was a sound before which strong men quailed.
William's new friend heard the sound long before William had turned the corner that led to his house. He put his hand to his head and groaned.
William's new friend was Vivian Strange, the distinguished poet and journalist. Vivian Strange had taken a furnished house in the village in order to enjoy the calm and quiet which were so essential to his literary calling. Instead of calm and quiet he had found William. That is, William had adopted him.
William was attracted to Vivian Strange because, although Vivian Strange belonged to the tyrant race of the "grown-ups," he had never yet told William to wipe his boots or go home at once or not to speak till he was spoken to. This touched William deeply. He was not used to it. He imagined that it must hide a lasting affection for him on the part of Strange. As a matter of fact it did no such thing.The attitude of Vivian Strange to William may be compared to that of a timid fawn before a lion, or a rabbit before a snake. He was not used to the human boy. He had never known one before at close quarters. When he gently hinted to William that he must be missed at home, William kindly intimated that they didn't mind a bit and he could stay a good long time yet.
Such mild sarcasm as Strange could produce had the same effect on William as water on the back of the proverbial duck. William was not used to hints. William was not used either to houses where he could sit in the best chairs and talk to his heart's content and eat cake unrestrained. He made the most of it. He liked Vivian Strange.
And Vivian told himself bitterly every night that his genius was being ruined, his naturally sweet temper embittered, his constitution undermined by a creature less than half his own size whom he might almost kill with one hand. He often dreamed of William. He often recalled hard things he had read or heard about the human boy, and decided that they were all true. Yet, when he met William's mother, and William's mother said, "I do hope that William isn't a nuisance to you," he flushed and said hastily, "Oh, no, not at all. I like it." And William's mother went placidly on her way and remarked later to an incredulous family circle, "There must besomethingabout William for a brilliant literary man like Mr. Strange to take pleasure in his company." Thereupon the family raised incredulous eyebrows.
On the previous day William had paid three visits to his new friend. The first visit had nippedin the bud a very promising poem written in an uncommon metre.
William entered playing on his mouth-organ a tune that he had learnt (not quite correctly, he admitted) that morning. During the third repetition of the tune, Vivian Strange began to see red, but his curse of politeness still clung to him.
"Hadn't you better let them hear that at home?" he said desperately.
William wiped his mouth politely.
"Oh, no," he said. "I don't mind goin' on a bit longer. 'Sides my family's not as fond of musick as wot you are."
When William had gone, Strange returned to the poem, but inspiration had fled.
After lunch he began a strikingly original essay on "Nature the Divine." Then William called again. This time he proudly brought a live mouse and a dead hedgehog to show his friend. He also carried (with difficulty) a jar full of muddy water containing squirming water creatures of repellent appearance and sinister expressions.
Vivian Strange pricked his finger on the dead hedgehog and was bitten by the mouse. On retiring precipitately from the mouse he knocked over the jar of water which William had thoughtfully placed on the edge of his bureau. Holding his bitten finger in his mouth, he watched the water as it dripped partly on to the carpet, partly upon a new satin cushion. He also watched his blotting-paper and pens and stamps and literary masterpieces floating in mud amongst wriggling, nightmare creatures. He raised his hand to his head.
"This," he said, "is the last straw."
William, who was on his knees, rescuing as manyof the creatures as he could, raised a face purple with effort.
"'S all right," he said pleasantly. "Don't you worry about it. I don't mind. Honest, I don't. I can get some more. Honest, I can ... an' anyway, some's not dead. You didn't reely get a proper look at 'em, did you? I'll get some more to-morrow an' you can have 'em to keep. But don't you worry about droppin' 'em. I don't mind."
Half an hour later, his face pale and set, Vivian took up his half-written essay, "Nature the Divine." There was a muddy pool through the middle of it, and a tadpole's corpse reposed peacefully in one corner. With averted eyes Vivian dropped it into the fire.
As he lay wakeful through the night, he searched in his mind for some form of literature that could resist the blighting effects of his young friend's frequent and devastating visits. With a lightning flash of inspiration came the answer—a sensational story. Vivian had never before lowered his genius to writing a sensational story, but he felt that the time had come. Some story that would carry itself along of its own momentum, that even a visit from William would not be able to turn from its course.
He was deep in the throes of it the next afternoon when the shrill sound of William's distant whistle reached him.
William entered cheerfully.
"Hello," he said. "You writin'?"
The victim raised his face from his hands.
"Iwas," he said pointedly.
"I thought you was," said William. "I saw you through the window with your head in yourhands, like as if you couldn't think wot to write nex'. So I knew you'd be glad to see me."
As he spoke, his rare smile overspread his freckled face.
The young man was dumb.
"I used to write a bit myself," went on William modestly, "an' often I can't think wot to write nex'. I remember once I wrote an orfully good tale about a man wot was a pirate an' he was run after by a dastardly cannibal round an' round a desert island an' then the dastardly cannibal caught him an' was jus' goin' to cook him when some frens of the dastardly cannibal came up, an' while the dastardly cannibal was saying 'good afternoon' to them the pirate got up a tree an' waved his pocket handkerchief to another pirate wot was on the sea as a sign that he was in deadly danger."
William stopped. "Yes?" said his unfortunate hearer in a dull voice. William plunged on.
"An' the dastardly cannibal sawed down the tree but the other pirate came an' they escaped an' the proud an' beautiful daughter of the dastardly cannibal escaped with them. She wasn't dastardly like wot her father was. She didn't like eatin' human folks. She didn't like the taste, so she was glad to get to a country where they didn't do it an' they was married an' she was the queen of the pirates an' he was the king of the pirates, an' she was proud an' beautiful an' said 'Avaunt!' when anyone tried to cheek her jus' like a reel queen. Is your tale anything like that?"
"No," groaned Mr. Strange.
"Well," said William, comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, "now I've told you my tale, you oughter tell me yours. I say, is there any of thatcake left wot you so kin'ly gave me some of yesterday?"
The young man waved a limp hand towards the sideboard cupboard.
William took a large slice of plum cake and returned to his chair.
"I always get so's I mus' have something to eat about this time, don't you?" he said pleasantly. "Icaneat mos' times but sometimes I feel so's Imus'eat.... Well, go on an' tell me about your tale, now. I've told you about mine an' I'll help you, you know, about wot to write nex'."
"I don't want you to," said the young man desperately.
"Oh, it's no bother," said William kindly. "Don't you think about that. I wanter help you. You gave me big bits of cake to-day an' yesterday an' I wanter help you an' I've wrote tales myself an' I know wot it's like. An' don't worry about knockin' over my water things. I've gotter fren' who's promised to catch some more to-morrow an' we'll bring them along soon's we've gottem. That was jolly good cake." The young man automatically waved a hand towards the cupboard again. "Thanks. I don't mind a bit more. It'sjollygood cake.... Now tell me about your tale so's I can help. Wot's it about?"
"It's—it's just about a man," said Mr. Strange feebly.
"Wot sort of a man?" said William with his mouth full of cake.
"Just a man—he's going home one night——"
"Goin' home, where from?" demanded William.
"That doesn't come into the story," said the young man irritably. "He was just going home."
"All right," said William soothingly. "Only, if he was goin' home he must 'a' been somewhere, an' I jus' wondered where he'd been to be coming home from."
"Well, as he's coming home he gets a message that a girl—a girl——" the young man hesitated.
"The girl wot he's in love with?" supplied William earnestly.
"Er—yes," said the young man. "He gets a message that she's in danger and he must go to her at once, so he follows the man, you see——"
"Which follows which?" said William judicially.
"The man the story begins with——"
"The one wot you didn't know where he was goin' home from?"
"Yes. That. Well, he follows the man that tells him the girl's in danger and really the man——"
"If you don't call 'em names," said William, "I can't tell which is which. Let's call the man wot you don't know where he was goin' home from Alberto (that's a good tale name), and the one wot says that the girl wot Alberto's in love with's in deadly danger Rudolpho (they all end with -o in a book I've been readin'; it sounded fine). Well then, Rudolpho tells Alberto that the girl wot Alberto's in love with's in deadly danger. I think that's a jolly good tale, but I think that Alberto oughter have a secret treasure somewhere, an' let's have another man in called Archibaldo (I've gotter nuncle called Archibald) wot wants the secret treasure an' he's gotter trail of dynamite laid to right under Alberto's bed to blow him up in the night when's he's asleep, an' let's have another girl in called Rosabellina wot Rudolpho's in love with—a proud an' beautiful maiden, you know, an'Rudolpho gets hold of her an' she yells out, 'Avaunt! Unhand me, varlet!'... Well, you finish yours first an' we'll put in my bits afterwards. You'd jus' got to Alberto comin' home from somewhere you din't know where an' followin' Rudolpho.... Wot comes next?"
Vivian Strange stared in front of him. He was once more the rabbit and William the snake. Some power in William's earnest, freckled countenance compelled him to proceed.
"The—er—the second man was really a secret service agent——"
"Wot's that?" inquired William disapprovingly.
"Oh, it's—er—it's a kind of glorified policeman, I suppose."
"Much better have him a pirate or a red injun," said William, "but never mind. Go on."
"Well, he wants to got hold of some letters that—er—Alberto has, and leads him to a lonely house and locks him up there, and says he'll keep him there till he gives them up."
"Hurlin' vile threats?" said William, his face alight with earnestness. "Let him say it hurlin' vile threats an' precations an' insults in his teeth. Wot happens nex'?"
"I don't know," said the young man. "That's as far as I got. I can't get on with it. I can't think what he'd say or do next."
William drew his brows together in deep thought.
"I should think Alberto oughter say 'Ha! villain! Never shalt thou worst me'—or something like that."
"People don't talk like that in real life."
"Oh, reel life!" said William scornfully. "I thought we was talkin' about books."
"Don't you think your friends want you to play with them?" said Mr. Strange with emphasis. "Don't you think you've left them for quite long enough?"
William arose and brushed the cake crumbs from his coat to the carpet.
"P'raps I'd better be goin'," he agreed. "But I'll be thinkin' over wot comes nex'. You say you want it real life an' not books. I think you oughter have more people in it. Can't you have them all on a desert island an' make Rudolpho get eaten by cannibals in mistake for Alberto.... Oh, well, jus' as you like, of course. I'll bring you my tales to read one day an' I'll bring you some water things to-morrow. Did you know tadpoles ate tadpoles? Talk about cannibals!... I say, that's a jolly fine penknife."
Vivian Strange, whose proud spirit was broken, handed him the knife with a despairing gesture.
"Take it!" he moaned. "Take it and go!"
William was touched.
"Oh, no," he said. "I'd better not take such a jolly fine penknife as that. You're sure to be wantin' it again. But—but I'll borrow it for a bit if you don't mind. I'll bring it back when I bring the water animals. I say, it's jolly kind of you. Well, good-bye."
William closed the door behind him. The sudden peace and silence of the room seemed to Strange too blissful to be real. But the door opened and William's tousled head and earnest face appeared again.
"I say," he said. "How about having a burglar in an' a detective after him, you know, an' mysterious signs an' clues an' blood hounds—aswell as the other people?... Not?... Well, it's your tale, so you jus' do it how you like. I'll see you again soon. Well, good-bye."
William disappeared and the front-door opened and shut. With anxious eyes Vivian Strange watched through the window for William's youthful form to appear in the drive loading to the gate. It did not do so. Instead, the familiar untidy head appeared once more round the door.
"I say!" he said. "I was jus' tryin' to remember—did I have three pieces of cake in here, or only two?... Oh, thanks.... I say, it's jolly kind of you."
"Take it all," said Mr. Strange, "and go!"
William was still more touched.
"Oh, no!" he said as he opened the cupboard. "I won't take it all—not jus' now. I'll take one more piece now an' I'll come round for another piece later on. It gets so messed up carryin' it about in your pocket, cake does. I've tried it. Gets all mixed up with marbles an' bits of clay an' string an' things. It doesn't spoil the taste but it wastes it—gettin' it all crumby.... Well, good-bye."
Once more the front-door opened and shut. Once more there was silence and peace. Vivian Strange, with a deep sigh, stretched out for his pen. Then an expression of wild despair came over his face.... The well-known footsteps sounded in the hall again and the door opened.
"I nearly went away," said William affectionately, "without showin' you my new whistle. I've been practisin' an' practisin' so's to show it you this afternoon. An' I nearly forgot an' I'd have had to come all the way back. This is it."
He placed two fingers in the corners of his mouth and emitted a siren-like sound that caused his friend to leap suddenly into the air in terror and surprise. William smiled with pride and friendliness.
"I knew you'd like it," he said. "My family doesn't care for it at home, but they don't care for any whistles. They don't reelly like musick—not like you do. Well, good-bye."
William walked along the road, humming happily to himself. His humming was, if possible, more dreadful than his whistling. William only hummed when he was happy. He enjoyed the sound of his humming. In this he was absolutely unique....
He was extremely happy to-day. His heart warmed at the thought of his friend's kindness ... the confidential literary chat ... the cake ... the penknife.... He took out the knife and looked at it. His heart swelled with pride and pleasure ... a knife like that ... and he'd been ready to give it ...giveit ... it was jolly decent of him.... William had no other friend in the whole world who would have thought oflendinghim a knife like that, much lessgivingit.
William's sense of gratitude was not easily stirred, but it was stirred this afternoon. When stirred, it demanded immediate and practical expression.... He mustdosomething for his friend ... now ... at once.... But what?... He could get him the water things, of course, but that wasn't enough. What did Mr. Strange reallywant?... Suddenly William's sombre countenance lit up.... He'd wanted to know what Alberto would have said and done in real life.... He should know.
Mr. Porter was walking home. Mr. Porter was an eminently reliable gentleman who lived a quiet, hard-working life divided between an eminently respectable office and an eminently respectable home. Mr. Porter was on his way home from the station, carrying his attaché case in his hand as he had done for the last thirty years.
In his mind was a pleasurable anticipation of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of good wine, an excellent cigar, and the evening paper. Mr. Porter had walked home with this pleasurable anticipation in his mind for the last thirty years, and it had always been fulfilled. There was a rosy glow over all his thoughts. He hardly noticed the small boy with the freckled, scowling countenance till he actually addressed him.
"The lady wot you're in love with," said the boy to him suddenly in an expressionless tone, "is in deadly danger, an' says you're to go to her at once."
Mr. Porter stopped short and peered through the dusk. He felt a little frightened. "The lady wot——" he repeated. Then, "Would you mind saying it again?"
William didn't mind.
"THE LADY WOT YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH," SAID WILLIAM,"IS IN DEADLY DANGER AN' SAYS YOU'RE TO GO TOHER AT ONCE."
"THE LADY WOT YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH," SAID WILLIAM,"IS IN DEADLY DANGER AN' SAYS YOU'RE TO GO TOHER AT ONCE."
"The lady wot you're in love with," he said clearly and distinctly, "is in deadly danger an' says you're to go to her at once."
"The lady wot——" began Mr. Porter again. "What a curious expression! Do you—er—do you mean my wife?"
"I s'pose so," said William guardedly.
"Er—did she tell you to say that?"
"Yes."
"Was she a tall lady?"
"Yes," said William, taking the line of least resistance.
"With a mole on her left cheek?"
"Yes."
"Grey hair?"
"Yes."
"Most curious!" said Mr. Porter. "That's certainly my wife. What did you say she said?"
"The lady wot you're in love with," said William monotonously, "is in deadly danger, an' says you're to go to her at once."
"But—where is she?"
"She said you was to follow me."
"Most curious!" said Mr. Porter uncertainly. "Mostcurious! Well—er—I suppose I'd better—er—one never knows—is it far?"
William's eye gleamed with victory.
"Oh, no," he said soothingly, "not far."
But Mr. Porter's heart had sunk. The rosy vision of the warm fire, the comfortable bedroom slippers, well-cooked dinner, glass of wine, cigar, evening paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance.
"Be as quick as you can," he said irritably. "I can't stand here all night catching my death of cold. How do I know it's not some cock-and-bull story? Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Silently and happily William led the way. Silently and miserably Mr. Porter followed. Mr. Porter disliked above all things departing a hair's breadth from his usual routine. Whatwasit all about, anyway? What was Mary thinking of, sending that curious message? Who was this strange boy? His self-pity and righteous indignation increased at every step. Down the street ... round a corner ... in at a side-gate ...down a side-path past a house ... into a back garden.... What the——? The strange boy was holding open the door of a kind of outhouse.
"She said particular you was to go in here," said the boy simply.
"What the——?" blazed Mr. Porter. "What the——?" he sputtered again.
The boy looked at him dispassionately.
"She said particular you was to go in here."
"Into a——? Into a dirty, empty coal-shed? What——?"
Mr. Porter stepped into the outhouse and flashed his electric torch around it. In that second he satisfied himself that the shed was empty. In that second also the door banged to behind him and a key was turned in the lock.
"Here!" cried Mr. Porter angrily. "Where the——?"
There was no answer.
Mr. Porter banged ferociously at the door.
"Open the door, you young villain!" he shouted.
There was no answer.
Mr. Porter kicked the door, and shook the door, and rattled the door, and cursed the door. The door remained immovable, and only the silence answered him. Having recourse once more to his electric torch, he discovered a small window high up at the back of the shed and beneath it a pile of coal. Mr. Porter determined to reach the window over the coal. He climbed the coal, and slipped in the coal, and waded in the coal, and rolled in the coal, and wallowed in the coal, and lost his collar in the coal.
Finally he let fly a torrent of language whose eloquence, and variety, and emphasis, and richnesssurprised even himself. Mr. Porter, an hour ago, would have believed himself incapable of such language. Then, panting, covered with coal-dust, his collar gone, his coat torn, he surveyed the scene of his imprisonment, and there came to him a vision of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of wine, a good cigar and the evening paper.... In sudden frenzy he flung himself bodily upon the door.
******
Vivian Strange had given up all attempt to write. He was sitting in the arm-chair by the fire reading poetry to soothe his nerves. His nerves were very much upset. He kept imagining that he heard strange noises—bangs and shouts, and once he shuddered, imagining that he heard William's whistle. He decided to go back to town as soon as possible. The much-vaunted peace of the countryside was a fiction. The country was not peaceful. It contained William, and William's whistle, and William's water creatures, and William's conversations. There was more peace in the middle of Piccadilly—without William—than there was in the country with William.
The door opened suddenly and William appeared. There was on his face a look of conscious pride as of one who has something attempted something done, but is prepared to be quite modest about it.
"You can go an' hear wot he says an' does in reel life," he said. "He's sayin' an' doin' it now in the coal-shed. I've been listenin' for ever so long."
Mr. Strange rose wildly.
"But——" he began.
The curious sounds increased. They were real,not a delusion of his overwrought nerves, as he had supposed. William was real too.
"Where——?" he said still more wildly.
"In the coal-shed," said William impatiently. "Hurry up or he'll be gettin' tired an' stoppin'. Take some paper an' then you can copy down some of the things he says in reel life. I told you I was right."
There came a sudden crashing and rending of wood, the sound of angry steps on the gravel, and in front of the house appeared a nightmare figure, black, gesticulating, ragged, collarless, hatless. It was the eminently respectable Mr. Porter. "Police," and "pay for this," and "scoundrel," were among the words that reached the bewildered Mr. Strange through the window. Then, shaking its fist, the figure disappeared into the dusk.
"There," said William. "You're too late. He's got out. He's broke the door down an' got out. Anyway, you know now wot he does in reel life. He breaks the door down an' gets out. An' I can remember lots of the things he said. I listened quite a long time. I'll take another piece of that cake now, if you don't mind. You said I could. Thanks awfully. I took a lot of trouble gettin' that reel life thing for you. Could—could I keep that penknife jus' for another day? I've got some frens I'd like to show it to. An' if there's anything else you'd like me to find out in reel life, I'll try. I don't bother with reel life myself when I do tales, but if you.... Oh, I say, are you goin' on with the tale now?"
Mr. Strange was not. He was writing a telegram form. It ran:
"Secure berth on any boat sailing anywhere.Complete nervous prostration. Change and rest urgent."
"I 'speck I'd better go," said William regretfully. "It's after my supper time. You don't mind, do you?"
"No," said the young man wildly. "No, I don't mind. I'm going away myself to-morrow, going away for good."
"Oh, are you?" said William sadly. "I'm sorry. I shall miss you quite a lot an' I 'speck you'll miss me."
"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Strange. "I shall miss you. I hope I shall miss you."
"Well, don't worry about it," said William kindly. "I 'speck you'll be comin' back soon. Good-bye, an' you can get on with your tale now, can't you, now you know wot he says an' does in reel life? Well, good-bye."
He went briskly out of the front door.
Mr. Strange drew a deep, quivering breath of relief. But not for long. Two apparitions appeared before the window, coming up the drive, one the blackened and battered remains of Mr. Porter and the other a stalwart arm of the law, carrying a note-book.
There was a gleam in Mr. Porter's eye. He was going to execute justice but, justice executed, there lay before him the warm fire, and comfortable bedroom slippers, and well-cooked dinner, and glass of wine, and excellent cigar, and evening paper of his dreams.
But Vivian's horrified gaze was drawn from them by the near vision of William's face pressed against the glass.
"I say," called William. "Youdidsay I could keep that knife for a bit, didn't you?"
Vivian Strange made a wild gesture that might have been assent or dissent or mere frenzy.
"Thanks awfully," shouted William. "Well, good-bye."
******
William strolled home through the dusk. He was sorry his friend was going, but, after all, he would be able to keep all the water creatures himself. Giving away water creatures was always a great sacrifice to William. Anyway, he'd had quite a decent day ... all about that tale had been interesting and exciting, and that was a jolly good cake and ajollygood penknife and—his thoughts flew off to that thrilling five minutes spent in rapt silence outside the coal house—he'd learnt a lot of new words.