Just William - Richmal Crompton (have you read this book .TXT) 📗

brother and sister, were there. He came in limping, his mouth set into a straight line of agony, his brows frowning.

“Hello! 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 passed. Then something about their figures struck him. They also had a dejected, dismal, hangdog look. He waited for the first one, Henry. Henry gave him a shamefaced glance and was going to pass 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 hoarse, 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.”

“Respectful and reposeful, Mrs. de Vere Carter.”

“That’s it, children dear. Respectful and reposeful. Now, our little new friends, what do I expect you to be?”

No answer.

The Outlaws sat horrified, outraged, shamed.

“You’re such shy darlings, aren’t you?” she said, stretching out an arm.

William retreated hastily, and Ginger’s face was pressed hard against a diamond brooch.

“You won’t be shy with us long, I’m sure. We’re so happy here. Happy and good. Now, children dear, what is it we must be?”

Again the bored monotonous chant:

“Happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter.”

“That’s it. Now, darlings, in the front row, you tell me. Willy, pet, you begin. What is it we must be?”

At that moment William was nearer committing murder than at any other time in his life. He caught a gleam in Henry’s eye. Henry would remember. William choked but made no answer.

“You tell me then, Harry boy.”

Henry went purple and William’s spirits rose.

“Ah, you won’t be so shy next week, will they, children dear?”

“No, Mrs. de Vere Carter,” came the prompt, listless response.

“Now, we’ll begin with one of our dear little songs. Give out the books.” She seated herself at the piano. “Number five, ‘Sparkling Water.’ Collect your thoughts, children dear. Are you ready?”

She struck the opening chords.

The Outlaws, though provided with books, did not join in. They had no objection to water as a beverage. They merely objected to singing about it.

Mrs. de Vere Carter rose from the piano.

“Now, we’ll play one of our games, children dear. You can begin by yourselves, can’t you, darlings? I’ll just go across the field and see why little Teddy Wheeler hasn’t come. He must be regular, mustn’t he, laddies dear? Now, what game shall we play. We had ‘Puss in the Corner’ last week, hadn’t we? We’ll have ‘Here we go round the mulberry-bush’ this week, shall we? No, not ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ darling. It’s a horrid, rough game. Now, while I’m gone, see if you can make these four shy darlings more at home, will you? And play quietly. Now before I go tell me four things that you must be?”

“Respectful and reposeful and happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter,” came the chant.

She