WILLIAM’S EVENING OUT
WILLIAM’S family had come up to London for a holiday. They had brought William with them chiefly because it was not safe to leave William behind. William was not the sort of boy who could be trusted to live a quiet and blameless life at home in the absence of his parents. He had many noble qualities, but he had not that one. So William gloomily and reluctantly accompanied his family to London.
William’s elder sister and mother lived in a whirl of shopping and theatres; William’s elder brother went every day to see a county cricket match, and returned in a state of frenzied excitement to discuss the play and players all the evening without the slightest encouragement from any one; William’s father foregathered with old cronies at his club or slept in the hotel smoking-room.
It was open to William to accompany any of the members of his family. He might shop and attend matinées with his mother and Ethel, he might go (on sufferance) to watch cricket matches with Robert, or he might sleep in the smoking-room with his father.
He was encouraged by each of them to join some other member of the family, and he occasionally managed to evade them all and spend the afternoon sliding down the banisters (till firmly, but politely, checked by the manager of the hotel), watching for any temporary absence of the liftman during which he might try to manipulate the machine itself or contending with the most impudent-looking page-boy in a silent and furtive rivalry in grimaces. But, in spite of this, he was supremely bored. He regarded the centre of the British Empire with contempt.
“Streets!” he said, with devastating scorn, at the end of his first day here. “Shops! Huh!”
William’s soul pined for the fields and lanes and woods of his home; for his band of boon companions, with whom he was wont to wrestle, and fight, and trespass, and plot dare-devil schemes, and set the world at defiance; for the irate farmers who helped to supply that spice of danger and excitement without which life to William and his friends was unendurable.
He took his London pleasures sadly.
“Oh—history!” he remarked coldly, when they escorted him round Westminster Abbey. His only comment on being shown the Tower was that it seemed to be takin’ up the whole day, not that there was much else to do, anyway.
His soul yearned for the society of his own kind. The son of his mother’s cousin, who lived near, had come to see him one day. He was a tall, pale boy, who asked William if he could fox-trot, and if he didn’t adore Axel Haig’s etchings, and if he didn’t prefer Paris to London. The conversation was an unsatisfactory one, and the acquaintance did not ripen.
But, accompanying his family on various short cuts in the back streets of London, he had glimpsed another world, a world of street urchins, who fought and wrestled, and gave vent to piercing whistles, and hung on to the backs of carts, and paddled in the gutter, and rang front-door bells and fled from policemen. He watched it wistfully. Socially, his tastes were not high. All he demanded from life was danger and excitement and movement and the society of his own kind. He liked boys, crowds of boys, boys who shouted and whistled and ran and courted danger, boys who had never heard of any silly old etchings.
As he followed his family with his air of patient martyrdom on all their expeditions, it was the glimpse of this underworld alone that would lift the shadow from his furrowed brow and bring a light to his stern, freckled countenance.... There were times when he stopped and tried to get into contact with it, but it was not successful. His mother’s “Come along, William! Don’t speak to those horrid little boys,” always recalled him to the blameless and palling respectability of his own family. Yet even before that hateful cry interrupted him he knew that it was useless.
He was an alien being—a clean little boy in a neat suit, with a fashionable mother and sister. He was beyond the pale, an outsider, a pariah, a creature to be mocked and jeered at. The position galled William. He was, by instinct, on the side of the lawless—the anti-respectable.
His spirits rose as the time for his return to the country approached. Yet there was a wistful longing at his heart for the boy world of London still unexplored, as well as a fierce contempt for the London his parents had revealed to him.
*****
William had been invited to a party on his last evening in London. William’s mother’s cousin lived in Kensington, and had invited William to a “little gathering of her children’s friends.” William did not wish to go to the party. What is more, William did not intend to go to the party. But a wonderful plan had come into William’s head.
“It’s very kind of her,” he said meekly. “Yes, I’ll be very pleased to go.”
This was unlike William’s usual manner of receiving an invitation to a party. Generally there were expostulations, indignation, assertion of complete incapacity to go to anything that particular night. William’s mother looked at him.
“You—you feel all right, don’t you, dear?” she said anxiously.
“Oh, yes,” said William, “an’ I feel I’d jus’ like a party.”
“You can wear your Eton suit,” said Mrs. Brown.
“Oh, yes,” said William. “I’d like that.”
William’s face was quite expressionless as he spoke. Mrs. Brown pinched herself to make sure that she was awake.
“I expect they’ll have music and dancing and that sort of thing,” she said.
She thought, perhaps, that William had misunderstood the kind of party it would be.
William’s expressionless face did not change.
“Oh, yes,” he said pleasantly, “music an’ dancin’ will be fine.”
When Mr. Brown was told of the invitation he groaned.
“And I suppose it will take the whole day to make him go,” he said.
“No,” said Mrs. Brown eagerly. “That’s the strange part. He seems to want to go. He really does. And he seems to want to wear his Eton suit, and you know what a bother that used to be. I suppose he’s beginning to take a pride in his appearance. I think London must be civilising him.”
“Well,” said Mr. Brown, dryly, “I suppose you know best. I suppose miracles do happen.”
When the evening of the party arrived, there was some difficulty as to the transit of William to his place of entertainment. The house was so near to the hotel where the Browns were staying that a taxi seemed hardly worth while. But there was a general reluctance to be his escort.
Ethel was going to a theatre, and Robert had been out all day and thought he deserved a bit of rest in the evening, instead of carting kids about, Mrs. Brown’s rheumatism had come on again, and Mr. Brown wanted to read the evening paper.
William, sleek and smooth, and brushed and encased in his Eton suit, his freckled face shining with cleanliness and virtue, broke meekly into the discussion.
“I know the way, mother. Can’t I just go myself?”
Mrs. Brown wavered.
“I don’t see why not,” she said at last.
“If you think that boy can walk three yards by himself without getting into mischief——” began Mr. Brown.
William turned innocent, reproachful eyes upon him.
“Oh, but look at him,” said Mrs. Brown; “and it isn’t as if he didn’t want to go to the party. You want to go, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, mother,” said William, meekly.
His father threw him a keen glance.
“Well, of course,” he said, returning to his paper, “do as you like. I’m certainly not going with him myself, but don’t blame me if he blows up the Houses of Parliament or dams the Thames, or pulls down Nelson’s Monument.”
William’s sorrowful, wistful glance was turned again upon his father.
“I won’t do any of those things, I promise, father,” he said solemnly.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t go alone,” said Mrs. Brown. “It’s not far, and he’s sure to be good, because he’s looking forward to it so; aren’t you, William?”
“Yes, mother,” said William, with his most inscrutable expression.
So he went alone.
*****
William set off briskly down the street—a neat figure in an Eton suit, an overcoat, a well-fitting cap and patent leather shoes.
His expression had relaxed as soon as the scrutiny of his family was withdrawn. It became expectant and determined.
Once out of the sight of possible watchers from the hotel, he turned off the road that led to his mother’s cousin’s house, and walked purposefully down a side street and thence to another side street.
There they were. He knew they would be there. Boys—boys after William’s own heart—dirty boys, shouting boys, whistling boys, fighting boys. William approached. At his own home he would have been acclaimed at once as leader of any lawless horde. But here he was not known. His present appearance, moreover—brushed hair, evening clothes, clean face—was against him. To them he was a thing taboo. They turned on him with delightful yells of scorn.
“Where’s yer mammy?”
“Look at ’is shoes! Boo-oo!”
“Isn’t ’is ’air brushed nice?”
“Yah!”
“Boo!”
“Garn!”
The tallest of them snatched William’s cap from his head and ran off with it. The snatching of a boy’s cap from his head is a deadly insult. William, whose one wistful desire was to be friends with his new acquaintances, yet had his dignity to maintain. He flew after the boy and caught him by the back of his neck. Then they closed.
The rest of the tribe stood round them in a ring, giving advice and encouragement. Their contempt for William vanished. For William was a good fighter. He lost his collar and acquired a black eye; and his hair, in the exhilaration of the contest, recovered from its recent severe brushing and returned to its favourite vertical angle.
The two were fairly well matched, and the fight was a most satisfactory one till the cry of “Cops” brought it to an abrupt end, and the crowd of boys, with William now in the middle, fled precipitately down another street. When they were at a safe distance from the blue helmet, they stopped, and the large boy handed William his cap.
“’Ere you are,” he said, with a certain respect.
William, with a careless gesture, tossed the cap into the air. “Don’t want it,” he said.
“Wot’s yer nime?”
“William.”
“’E’s called Bill,” said the boy to the others.
William read in their faces a growing interest, not quite friendship yet, but still not quite contempt. He glowed with pride. He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and there met—a sixpence—joy!
“Wot’s your name?” he said to his late adversary.
“’Erb,” said the other, still staring at William with interest.
“Come on, ’Erb,” said William jauntily, “let’s buy some sweets, eh?”
He entered a small, unsavouring sweetshop, and the whole tribe crowded in after him. He and ’Erb discussed the rival merits of bulls’ eyes and cokernut kisses at length.
“Them larses longer,” said ’Erb, “but these ’ere tases nicer.”
Finally, William airily tasted one of the cokernut kisses and the whole tribe followed his example—to be chased by the indignant shopkeeper all the way down the street.
“Eatin’ of ’em!” he shouted furiously. “Eatin’ of ’em without payin’ for ’em. I’ll set the cops on ye—ye young thieves.”
*****
They rushed along the next street shouting, whistling and pushing each other. William’s whistle was louder than any, he ran the foremost. The lust of lawlessness was growing on him. They swarmed in at the next sweetshop, and William purchased sixpennyworth of bulls’ eyes and poured them recklessly out of the bag into the grimy, outstretched palms that surrounded him.
William had no idea where he was. His hands were as grimy as the hands of his companions, his face was streaked with dirt wherever his hands had touched it, his eye was black, his collar was gone, his hair was wild, his overcoat had lost its look of tailored freshness. And he was happy at last.
WILLIAM WAS HAPPY AT LAST. HE WAS A BOY AMONG
BOYS—AN OUTLAW AMONG OUTLAWS
THEY RUSHED ALONG THE NEXT
STREET, SHOUTING AND WHISTLING.
He was no longer a little gentleman staying at a select hotel with his family. He was a boy among boys—an outlaw among outlaws once more. He was no longer a pariah. He had proved his valour in fighting and running and whistling. He was almost accepted, not quite. He was alight with exhilaration.
In the next street a watering cart had just passed, and there was a broad muddy stream flowing along the gutter. With a whoop of joy the tribe made for it, ’Erb at the head, closely followed by William.
William’s patent leather shoes began to lose their damning smartness. It was William who began to stamp as he walked, and the rest at once followed suit—splashing, shouting, whistling, jostling, they followed the muddy stream through street after street. At every corner William seemed to shed yet another portion of the nice equipment of the boy-who-is-going-to-a-party. No party would have claimed him now—no hostess greeted him—no housemaid admitted him—he had completely “burned his boats.” But he was happy.
All good things come to an end, however, even a muddy stream in a gutter, and ’Erb, still leader, called out: “Come on, you chaps! Come on, Bill—bells!”
Along both sides of a street they flew at break-neck speed, pulling every bell as they passed. Three enraged householders pursued them. One of them, fleeter than the other two, caught the smallest and slowest of the tribe and began to execute corporal punishment.
It was William who returned, charged from behind, left the householder winded in the gutter, and dragged the yelling scapegoat to the shelter of his tribe.
“Good ole Bill,” said ’Erb, and William’s heart swelled again with pride. Nothing on earth would now have checked his victorious career.
A motor-van passed with another gang of street-urchins hanging on merrily behind. With a yell of battle, William hurled himself upon them, struggled with them in mid-air, and established himself, cheering on his own tribe and pushing off the others.
In the fight William lost his overcoat, his Eton coat was torn from top to bottom, and his waistcoat ripped open. But his tribe won the day; the rival tribe dropped off, hurling ineffectual taunts and insults, and on sailed William and his gang, half-running, half-riding, with an exhilarating mixture of physical exercise and joy-riding unknown to the more law-abiding citizen.
And in the midst was William—William serene and triumphant, William dirty and ragged, William acclaimed leader at last. The motor-van put on speed. There was a ride of pure breathless joy and peril before, at last exhausted, they dropped off.
*****
Then ’Erb turned to William: “Wot you doin’ to-night, maite?” he said.
“Maite!” William’s heart glowed.
“Nothin’, maite,” answered William carelessly.
“Oi’m goin’ to the picshers,” said ’Erb. “If you loike ter ’elp my o’d woman with the corfee-stall, she’ll give yer a tanner.”
A coffee-stall—Oh, joy! Was the magic of this evening inexhaustible?
“Oi’ll ’elp ’er orl roight, maite,” said William, making an effort to acquire his new friend’s accent and intonation.
“Oi’ll taike yer near up to it,” said ’Erb, and to the gang: “Nah, you run orf ’ome, kids. Me an’ Bill is busy.”
He gave William a piece of chewing-gum, which William proudly took and chewed and swallowed, and led him to a street-corner, from where a coffee-stall could be seen in a glare of flaming oil-jets.
“You just say ‘’Erb sent me,’ an’ you bet you’ll get a tanner when she shuts up—if she’s not in a paddy. Go on. Goo’-night.”
He fled, leaving William to approach the stall alone. A large, untidy woman regarded him with arms akimbo.
“I’ve come ter ’elp with the stall,” said William, trying to speak with the purest of Cockney accents. “’Erb sent me.”
The woman regarded him with a hostile stare, still with arms akimbo.
“Oh, ’e did, did ’e? ’E’s allus ready ter send someone else. ’E’s gone ter the picshers, I suppose? ’E’s a nice son fer a poor woman ter ’ave, isn’t ’e? Larkin’ abaht orl day an’ goin’ ter picshers orl night—an’ where do Oi come in? I asks yer, where do Oi come in?”
William, feeling that some reply was expected, said that he didn’t know. She looked him up and down. Her expression implied that her conclusions were far from complimentary.
“An’ you—I serpose—one of the young divvils ’e picks up from ’Evving knows where. Told yer yer’d git a tanner, I serpose? Well, yer’ll git a tanner if yer be’aves ter my likin’, an yer’ll git a box on the ears if yer don’. Oh, come on, do; don’t stand there orl night. ’Ere’s the hapron—buns is a penny each, an’ sangwiches a penny each, and cups o’ corfy a penny each. Git a move on.”
He was actually installed behind the counter. He was actually covered from neck to foot in a white apron. His rapture knew no bounds. He served strong men with sandwiches and cups of coffee. He dropped their pennies into the wooden till. He gave change (generally wrong). He turned the handle of the fascinating urn. He could not resist the handle of the little urn. When there were no customers he turned the handle, to see the little brown stream gush out in little spurts on to the floor or on to the counter.
His feeling of importance as he handed over buns and received pennies was indescribable. He felt like a king—like a god. He had forgotten all about his family....
Then the stout lady presented him with a bowl of hot water, a dish-cloth, and a towel, and told him to wash up. Wash up! He had never washed up before. He swished the water round the bowl with the dish-cloth very fast one way, and then quickly changed and swished it round the other. It was fascinating. He lifted the dish-cloth high out of the water and swirled the thin stream to and fro. He soaked his apron and swamped the floor.
Finally, his patroness, who had been indulging in a doze, awoke and fixed eyes of horror upon him.
“What yer think yer a-doing of?” she said indignantly. “Yer think yer at the seaside, don’t yer? Yer think yer’ve got yer little bucket an’ spade, don’t yer? Waistin’ of good water—spoilin’ of a good hapron. Where did ’Erb find yer, I’d like ter know. Picked yer aht of a lunatic asylum, I should say.... Oh, lumme, ’ere’s toffs comin’. Sharp, now, be ready wiv the hurn an’ try an’ ’ave a bit of sense, an’ heverythin’ double price fer toffs, now—don’t forget.”
*****
But William, with a sinking heart, had recognised the toffs. Looking wildly round he saw a large cap (presumably ’Erb’s) on a lower shelf of the stall. He seized it, put it on, and dragged it over his eye. The “toffs” approached—four of them. One of them, the elder lady, seemed upset.
“Have you seen,” she said to the owner of the stall, “a little boy anywhere about—a little boy in an Eton suit?”
“No, mam,” said the proprietress, “I hain’t seen no one in a heton suit.”
“He was going out to a party,” went on Mrs. Brown breathlessly, “and he must have got lost on the way. They rang up to say he hadn’t arrived, and the police have had no news of him, and we’ve traced him to this locality. You—you haven’t seen a little boy that looked as if he were going to a party?”
“No, mam,” said the lady of the coffee-stall. “I hain’t seen no little boy goin’ to no party this hevening.”
“Oh, mother,” said Ethel; and William, trying to hide his face between his cap-brim and his apron, groaned in spirit as he heard her voice. “Do let’s have some coffee now we’re here.”
“Very well, darling,” said Mrs. Brown. “Four cups of coffee, please.”
William, still cowering under his cap, poured them out and handed them over the counter.
“You couldn’t mistake him,” said Mrs. Brown, tearfully. “He had a nice blue overcoat over his Eton suit, and a blue cap to match, and patent leather shoes, and he was so looking forward to the party, I can’t think——”
“How much?” said William’s father to William.
“Twopence each,” muttered William.
There was a horrible silence.
“I beg your pardon,” said William’s father suavely, and William’s heart sank.
“Twopence each,” he muttered again.
There was another horrible silence.
“May I trouble you,” went on William’s father—and from the deadly politeness of his tone, William realised that all was over—“may I trouble you to remove your cap a moment? Something about your voice and the lower portion of your face reminds me of a near relative of mine——”
But it was Robert who snatched ’Erb’s cap from his head and stripped his apron from him, and said: “You young devil!” and Ethel who said: “Goodness, just look at his clothes,” and Mrs. Brown who said: “Oh, my darling little William, and I though I’d lost you”; and the lady of the coffee-stall who said: “Well, yer can ’ave ’im fer all ’e knows abaht washin’-up.”
And William returned sad but unrepentant to the bosom of outraged Respectability.