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

wandered up to touch the new tie and gleaming new collar, which was rather too high and too tight for comfort, but which the shopkeeper had informed his harassed customer was the “latest and most correct shape.”

Meanwhile the beloved had reached William’s “dugout.” William had made this himself of branches cut down from the trees and spent many happy hours in it with one or other of his friends.

“Here is the wigwam, Paleface,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “Stand here while I decide with Snake Face and the other chiefs what’s goin’ to be done to you. There’s Snake Face an’ the others,” he added in his natural voice, pointing to a small cluster of shrubs.

Approaching these, he stood and talked fiercely and unintelligibly for a few minutes, turning his scowling corked face and pointing his finger at her every now and then, as, apparently, he described his capture.

Then he approached her again.

“That was Red Indian what I was talkin’ then,” he explained in his ordinary voice, then sinking it to its low, roaring note and scowling more ferociously than ever, “Snake Face says the Paleface must be scalped and cooked and eat!”

He took out a penknife and opened it as though to perform the operation, then continued, “But me and the others say that if you’ll be a squaw an’ cook for us we’ll let you go alive.”

Miss Cannon dropped on to her knees.

“Most humble and grateful thanks, great Red Hand,” she said. “I will with pleasure be your squaw.”

“I’ve gotter fire round here,” said William proudly, leading her to the back of the wigwam, where a small wood fire smouldered spiritlessly, choked by a large tin full of a dark liquid.

“That, O Squaw,” said Red Hand with a dramatic gesture, “is a Paleface we caught las’ night!”

The squaw clasped her hands together.

“Oh, how lovely!” she said. “Is he cooking?”

Red Hand nodded. Then,

“I’ll get you some feathers,” he said obligingly. “You oughter have feathers, too.”

He retired into the depth of the wigwam and returned with a handful of hen feathers. Miss Cannon took off her big shady hat and stuck the feathers into her fluffy brown hair with a laugh.

“This is jolly!” she said. “I love Red Indians!”

“I’ve got some cork you can have to do your face, too,” went on William with reckless generosity. “It soon burns in the fire.”

She threw a glance towards the chimneys of the house that could be seen through the trees and shook her pretty head regretfully.

“I’m afraid I’d better not,” she said sadly.

“Well,” he said, “now I’ll go huntin’ and you stir the Paleface and we’ll eat him when I come back. Now, I’ll be off. You watch me track.”

He opened his clasp-knife with a bloodthirsty flourish and, casting sinister glances round him, crept upon his hands and knees into the bushes. He circled about, well within his squaw’s vision, obviously bent upon impressing her. She stirred the mixture in the tin with a twig and threw him every now and then the admiring glances he so evidently desired.

Soon he returned, carrying over his shoulder a doormat which he threw down at her feet.

“A venison, O squaw,” he said in a lordly voice. “Let it be cooked. I’ve had it out all morning,” he added in his ordinary tones; “they’ve not missed it yet.”

He fetched from the “wigwam” two small jagged tins and, taking the larger tin off the fire, poured some into each.

“Now,” he said, “here’s some Paleface for you, squaw.”

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sure he’s awfully good, but⁠—”

“You needn’t be frightened of it,” said William protectively. “It’s jolly good, I can tell you.” He picked up the paper cover of a packet of soup from behind the trees. “It’s jus’ that and water and it’s jolly good!”

“How lovely! Do they let you⁠—?”

“They don’t let me,” he broke in hastily, “but there’s heaps in the larder and they don’t notice one every now an’ then. Go on!” encouragingly, “I don’t mind you having it! Honest, I don’t! I’ll get some more soon.”

Bravely she raised the tin to her lips and took a sip.

“Gorgeous!” she said, shutting her eyes. Then she drained the tin.

William’s face shone with pride and happiness. But it clouded over as the sound of a bell rang out from the house.

“Crumbs! That’s tea!”

Hastily Miss Cannon took the feathers from her hair and put on her hat.

“You don’t keep a looking-glass in your wigwam I suppose?” she said.

“N-no,” admitted William. “But I’ll get one for next time you come. I’ll get one from Ethel’s room.”

“Won’t she mind?”

“She won’t know,” said William simply.

Miss Cannon smoothed down her dress.

“I’m horribly late. What will they think of me? It was awful of me to come with you. I’m always doing awful things. That’s a secret between you and me.” She gave William a smile that dazzled him. “Now come in and we’ll confess.”

“I can’t,” said William. “I’ve got to wash an’ come down tidy. I promised I would. It’s a special day. Because of Robert, you know. Well you know. Because of⁠—Robert!”

He looked up at her mystified face with a significant nod.

Robert was frantic. He had run his hands through his hair so often that it stood around his head like a spiked halo.

“We can’t begin without her,” he said. “She’ll think we’re awful. It will⁠—put her off me forever. She’s not used to being treated like that. She’s the sort of girl people don’t begin without. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in all my life and you⁠—my own mother⁠—treat her like this. You may be ruining my life. You’ve no idea what this means to me. If you’d seen her you’d feel more sympathy. I simply can’t describe her⁠—I⁠—”

“I said four o’clock, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “and it’s after half-past. Ethel, tell Emma she can ring the bell and bring in tea.”

The perspiration stood out on Robert’s brow.

“It’s⁠—the downfall of all my hopes,” he said hoarsely.

Then, a few minutes after the echoes of the tea-bell died away,