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

biscuit, Ginger some popcorn and some cold boiled potatoes wrapped up in newspaper, Henry a cold apple dumpling and a small bottle of paraffin-oil.

“I knew the wood would be wet after the rain. It’s to make the fire burn. That’s sense, isn’t it?”

“Only one thing to cook,” said Ginger sadly, looking at the slices of ham.

“We can cook up the potatoes and the dumpling. They don’t look half enough cooked. Let’s put them on the floor here, and go out for adventures first. All different ways and back in a quarter of an hour.”

The Outlaws generally spent part of the afternoon dispersed in search of adventure. So far they had wooed the Goddess of Danger chiefly by trespassing on the ground of irascible farmers in hopes of a chase which were generally fulfilled.

They deposited their store on the ground in a corner of the barn, and with a glance at the “kidnap,” who was seated happily upon the floor engaged in chewing its hat-strings, they went out, carefully closing the door.

After a quarter of an hour Ginger and William arrived at the door simultaneously from opposite directions.

“Any luck?”

“No.”

“Same here. Let’s start the old fire going.”

They opened the door and went in. The infant was sitting on the floor among the stores, or rather among what was left of the stores. There was paraffin-oil on its hair, face, arms, frock and feet. It was drenched in paraffin-oil. The empty bottle and its hat lay by its side. Mingled with the paraffin-oil all over its person was cold boiled potato. It was holding the apple-dumpling in its hand.

“Ball!” it announced ecstatically from behind its mask of potato and paraffin-oil.

They stood in silence for a minute. Then, “Who’s going to make that fire burn now?” said Ginger, glaring at the empty bottle.

“Yes,” said William slowly, “an’ who’s goin’ to take that baby home? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Who’s goin’ to take that baby home?”

There was no doubt that when William condescended to adopt a phrase from any of his family’s vocabularies, he considerably overworked it.

“Well, it did it itself. It’s no one else’s fault, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” said William. “But that’s the sort of thing folks never see. Anyway, I’m goin’ to wash its face.”

“What with?”

William took out his grimy handkerchief and advanced upon his prey. His bottle of licorice water was lying untouched in the corner. He took out the cork.

“Goin’ to wash it in that dirty stuff?”

“It’s made of water⁠—clean water⁠—I made it myself, so I bet I ought to know, oughtn’t I? That’s what folks wash in, isn’t it?⁠—clean water?”

“Yes,” bitterly, “and what are we goin’ to drink, I’d like to know? You’d think that baby had got enough of our stuff⁠—our potatoes and our apple-dumpling, an’ our oil⁠—without you goin’ an’ givin’ it our licorice water as well.”

William was passing his handkerchief, moistened with licorice water, over the surface of the baby’s face. The baby had caught a corner of it firmly between its teeth and refused to release it.

“If you’d got to take this baby home like this,” he said, “you wouldn’t be thinking much about drinking licorice water. I’m simply statin’⁠—”

“Oh, shut up saying that!” said Ginger in sudden exasperation. “I’m sick of it.”

At that moment the door was flung open and in walked slowly a large cow closely followed by Henry and Douglas.

Henry’s face was one triumphant beam. He felt that his prestige, eclipsed by William’s kidnapping coup, was restored.

“I’ve brought a cow,” he announced, “fetched it all the way from Farmer Litton’s field⁠—five fields off, too, an’ it took some fetching, too.”

“Well, what for?” said William after a moment’s silence.

Henry gave a superior laugh.

“What for! You’ve not read much about outlaws, I guess. They always drove in cattle from the surroundin’ districks.”

“Well, what for?” said William again, giving a tug at his handkerchief, which the infant still refused to release.

“Well⁠—er⁠—well⁠—to kill an’ roast, I suppose,” said Henry lamely.

“Well, go on,” said William. “Kill it an’ roast it. We’re not stoppin’ you, are we? Kill it an’ roast it⁠—an’ get hung for murder. I s’pose it’s murder to kill cows same as it is to kill people⁠—’cept for butchers.”

The cow advanced slowly and deprecatingly towards the “kidnap,” who promptly dropped the handkerchief and beamed with joy.

“Bow-wow!” it said excitedly.

“Anyway, let’s get on with the feast,” said Douglas.

“Feast!” echoed Ginger bitterly. “Feast! Not much feast left! That baby William brought’s used all the paraffin-oil and potatoes, and it’s squashed the apple-dumpling, and William’s washed its face in the licorice water.”

Henry gazed at it dispassionately and judicially.

“Yes⁠—it looks like as if someone had washed it in licorice water⁠—and as if it had used up all the oil and potatoes. It doesn’t look like as if it would fetch much ransom. You seem to have pretty well mucked it up.”

“Oh, shut up about the baby,” said William picking up his damp and now prune-coloured handkerchief. “I’m just about sick of it. Come on with the fire.”

They made a little pile of twigs in the field and began the process of lighting it.

“I hope that cow won’t hurt the ‘kidnap,’ ” said Douglas suddenly. “Go and see, William; it’s your kidnap.”

“Well, an’ it’s Henry’s cow, and I’m sorry for that cow if it tries playin’ tricks on that baby.”

But he rose from his knees reluctantly, and threw open the barn door. The cow and the baby were still gazing admiringly at each other. From the cow’s mouth at the end of a long, sodden ribbon, hung the chewed remains of the baby’s hat. The baby was holding up the dog biscuit and crowed delightfully as the cow bent down its head and cautiously and gingerly smelt it. As William entered, the cow turned round and switched its tail against the baby’s head. At the piercing howl that followed, the whole band of outlaws entered the barn.

“What are you doing to the poor little thing?” said Douglas to William.

“It’s Henry’s cow,” said William despairingly. “It hit it. Oh, go on,