“He’s took it,” he said in a sibilant whisper. “It’s mine! He took it!”
“Sh!” said Ethel.
“It’s mine,” persisted William. “It’s what Mr. French give me for being took ill that day, you know.”
“What?” said Ethel, leaning towards him.
The hymn was in full swing again now.
“He gave it me for being took ill so’s he could come and carry me home ’cause he was gone on you an’ it’s mine an’ that boy’s took it an’ it was jus’ gettin’ to dance an’—”
“Sh!” hissed Mr. Brown violently.
“I shall never look anyone in the face again,” lamented Mrs. Brown on the way home. “I think everyone was in church! And the way Ethel screamed! It was awful! I shall dream of it for nights. William, I don’t know how you could!”
“Well, it’s mine,” said William. “That boy’d no business to take it. It was gettin’ to know me. I di’n’t mean it to get loose, an’ get on Father’s head an’ scare folks. I di’n’t mean it to. I meant it to be quiet and stay in my pocket. It’s mine, anyway, an’ that boy took it.”
“It’s not yours any more, my son,” said Mr. Brown firmly.
Ethel walked along with lips tight shut.
In the distance, walking towards them, was a tall, jaunty figure. It was Mr. French, who, ignorant of what had happened, was coming gaily on to meet them returning from church. He was smiling as he came, secure in his reception, composing airy compliments in his mind. As Ethel came on he raised his hat with a flourish and beamed at her effusively. Ethel walked past him, without a glance and with head high, leaving him, aghast and despairing, staring after her down the road. He never saw Mr. and Mrs. Brown. William realised the situation. The future half-crowns and two-shilling pieces seemed to vanish away. He protested vehemently.
“Ethel, don’t get mad at Mr. French. He di’n’t mean anything! He only wanted to do sumthin’ for you ’cause he was mad on you.”
“It’s horrible!” said Ethel. “First you bringing that dreadful animal to church, and then I find that he’s deceived me and you helped him. I hope Father takes the other one away.”
“He won’t,” said William. “He never said anything about that. The other’s learnin’ to be friends with Jumble in the shed. I say, Ethel, don’t be mad at Mr. French. He—”
“Oh, don’t talk about him,” said Ethel angrily.
William, who was something of a philosopher, accepted failure, and the loss of any riches a future allied with Mr. French might have brought him.
“All right!” he said. “Well, I’ve got the other one left, anyway.”
They entered the drive and began to walk up to the front-door. From the bushes came a scampering and breaking of twigs as Jumble dashed out to greet his master. His demeanour held more than ordinary pleasure: it expressed pride and triumph. At his master’s feet he laid his proud offering—the mangled remains of Cromwell.
William gasped.
“Oh, William!” said Ethel, “I’m so sorry.”
William assumed an expression of proud, restrained sorrow.
“All right!” he said generously. “It’s not your fault really. An’ it’s not Jumble’s fault. P’r’aps he thought it was what I was tryin’ to teach him to do. It’s jus’ no one’s fault. We’ll have to bury it.” His spirits rose. “I’ll do the reel buryin’ service out of the Prayer Book.”
He stood still gazing down at what was left of Jumble’s friend. Jumble stood by it, proud and pleased, looking up with his head on one side and his tail wagging. Sadly William reviewed the downfall of his hopes. Gone was Mr. French and all he stood for. Gone was Rufus. Gone was Cromwell. He put his hand into his pocket and it came in contact with the two-shilling piece.
“Well,” he said slowly and philosophically, “I’ve got that left anyway.”
XII
“Jumble”
William’s father carefully placed the bow and arrow at the back of the library cupboard, then closed the cupboard door and locked it in grim silence. William’s eyes, large, reproachful, and gloomy, followed every movement.
“Three windows and Mrs. Clive’s cat all in one morning,” began Mr. Brown sternly.
“I didn’t mean to hit that cat,” said William earnestly. “I didn’t—honest. I wouldn’t go round teasin’ cats. They get so mad at you, cats do. It jus’ got in the way. I couldn’t stop shootin’ in time. An’ I didn’t mean to break those windows. I wasn’t tryin’ to hit them. I’ve not hit anything I was trying to hit yet,” wistfully. “I’ve not got into it. It’s jus’ a knack. It jus’ wants practice.”
Mr. Brown pocketed the key.
“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
