WILLIAM’S EXTRA DAY
“WHAT’S Leap Year?” asked William.
“It’s a year that leaps,” said his elder brother, Robert.
“It’s Leap Year this year,” said William.
“Who told you?” inquired Robert sarcastically.
“Well, I don’t see much leapin’ about this year so far,” said William, trying to rise to equal heights of sarcasm.
“Oh, go and play Leap Frog,” said Robert scathingly.
“I don’t believe you know,” said William. “I don’t for a minute b’lieve you know why it’s called Leap Year. You don’t care, either. S’long as you can sit talkin’ to Miss Flower, you don’t care about anything else. You’ve not even got any curiosity ’bout Leap Year nor anything else. I dunno what you find to talk to her about. I bet she doesn’t know why it’s Leap Year no more than you do. You don’t talk ’bout anything sensible—you an’ Miss Flower. You——”
Robert’s youthful countenance had flushed a dull red. Miss Flower was the latest of Robert’s seemingly endless and quickly changing succession of grand passions.
“You don’t even talk most of the time,” went on William scornfully, “’cause I’ve watched you. You sit lookin’—jus’ lookin’—at each other like wot you used to with Miss Crane an’ Miss Blake an’ Miss—what was she called? An’ it does look soft, let me tell you, to anyone watchin’ through the window.”
Robert rose with murder in his eye.
“Shut up and get out!” he roared.
William shut up and got out. He sighed as he wandered into the garden. It was like Robert to get into a temper just because somebody asked him quite politely what Leap Year was.
Ethel, William’s grown-up sister, was in the drawing-room.
“Ethel,” said William, “why’s it called Leap Year?”
“Because of February 29th,” said Ethel.
“Well,” said William, with an air of patience tried beyond endurance, “if you think that’s any answer to anyone askin’ you why’s it Leap Year—if you think that’s an answer that means anythin’ to any ornery person....”
“You see, everything leaps on February 29th,” said his sister callously; “you wait and see.”
William looked at her in silent scorn for a few moments, then gave vent to his feelings.
“Anyone ’d think that anyone ’s old as you an’ Robert would know a simple thing like that. Jus’ think of you an’ Robert an’ Miss Flower not knowing why it’s called Leap Year.”
“How do you know Miss Flower doesn’t know?”
“Well, wun’t she have told Robert if she knew? She must have told Robert everythin’ she knows by this time, talkin’ to him an’ talkin’ to him like she does. F’ that matter I don’t s’pose Mr. Brooke knows. He’d have told you ’f he did. He’s always——”
Ethel groaned.
“Will you stop talking and go away if I give you a chocolate?” she said.
William forgot his grievance.
“Three,” he stipulated in a quick business-like voice. “Gimme three ’n I’ll go right away.”
She gave him three so readily that he regretted not having asked for six.
He put two in his mouth, pocketed the third, and went into the morning-room.
His father was there reading a newspaper.
“Father,” said William, “why’s it called Leap Year?”
“How many times am I to tell you,” said his father, “to shut the door when you come into a room? There’s an icy blast piercing down my neck now. Do you want to murder me?”
“No, father,” said William kindly. He shut the door.
“Father, why’s it called Leap Year?”
“Ask your mother,” said his father, without looking up from his paper.
“She mightn’t know.”
“Well, ask someone else then. Ask anyone in heaven or earth. BUT DON’T ASK ME ANYTHING! And shut the door when you go out.”
William, though as a rule slow to take a hint, went out of the room and shut the door.
“He doesn’t know,” he remarked to the hat-rack in the hall.
He found his mother in the dining-room. She was engaged in her usual occupation of darning socks.
“Mother,” said William, “why’s it called Leap Year?”
“I simply can’t think, William,” said Mrs. Brown feelingly, “how do you get such dreadful holes in your heels?”
“It’s that hard road on the way to school, I ’spect,” said William. “I’ve gotter walk to school. I ’spect that’s it. I ’spect ’f I didn’t go to school an’ kept to the fields an’ woods I wun’t gettem like wot I do. But you an’ father keep sayin’ I’ve gotter go to school. I wun’t mind not goin’—jus’ to save you trouble. I wun’t mind growin’ up ign’rant like wot you say I would if I didn’t go to school—jus’ to save you trouble—I——”
Mrs. Brown hastily interrupted him.
“What did you want to know, William?”
William returned to his quest.
“Why’s it called Leap Year?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brown, “it’s because of February 29th. It’s an extra day.”
William thought over this for some time in silence.
“D’you mean,” he said at last, “that it’s an extra day that doesn’t count in the ornery year?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Mrs. Brown vaguely. “William dear, I wish you wouldn’t always stand just in my light.”
*****
It was February 29th. William was unusually silent during breakfast. In the relief caused by his silence his air of excitement was unnoticed.
After breakfast, William went upstairs. He took two small paper parcels from a drawer and put them into his overcoat pocket. One contained several small cakes surreptitiously abstracted from the larder, the other contained William’s “disguise.” William’s “disguise” was a false beard which had formed part of Robert’s hired costume for the Christmas theatricals. Robert never knew what had happened to the beard. He had been charged for it as “missing” by the theatrical costumier.
William had felt that a “disguise” was a necessity to him. All the heroes of the romances he read found it necessary in the crises of their adventurous lives to assume disguises. William felt that you never knew when a crisis was coming, and that any potential hero of adventure—such as he knew himself to be—should never allow himself to be without a “disguise.” So far he had not had need to assume it. But he had hopes for to-day. It was an extra day. Surely you could do just what you liked on an extra day. To-day was to be a day of adventure.
He went downstairs and put on his cap in the hall.
“You’ll be rather early for school,” said Mrs. Brown.
William’s unsmiling countenance assumed a look of virtue.
“I don’t mind bein’ early for school,” he said.
Slowly and decorously he went down the drive and disappeared from sight.
Mrs. Brown went back to the dining-room where her husband was still reading the paper.
“William’s so good to-day,” she said.
Her husband groaned.
“Eight-thirty in the morning,” he said, “and she says he’s good to-day! My dear, he’s not had time to look round yet!”
William walked down the road with a look of set purpose on his face. Near the school he met Bertram Roke. Bertram Roke was the good boy of the school.
“You’re not goin’ to school to-day, are you?” said William.
“Course,” said Bertram virtuously. “Aren’t you?”
“Me?” said William. “Don’t you know what day it is? Don’t you know it’s an extra day wot doesn’t count in the ornery year. Catch me goin’ to school on an extra day what doesn’t count in the ornery year.”
“What are you goin’ to do, then?” said Bertram, taken aback.
“I’m goin’ to have adventures.”
“You’ll—you’ll miss geography,” said Bertram.
“Geography!” said the hero of adventures scornfully.
Leaving Bertram gaping over the school wall, his Latin grammar under one arm and his geography book under the other, William walked up the hill and into the wood in search of adventures.
*****
It was most certainly a gipsy encampment. There was a pot boiling on a camp fire and a crowd of ragged children playing around. Three caravans stood on the broad cart track that led through the wood.
William watched the children wistfully from a distance. More than anything on earth at that moment William longed to be a gipsy. He approached the children. All of them fled behind the caravans except one—a very dirty boy in a ragged green jersey and ragged knickers and bare legs. He squared his fists and knocked William down. William jumped up and knocked the boy down. The boy knocked William down again, but overbalanced with the effort. They sat on the ground and looked at each other.
“Wot’s yer nyme?” said the boy.
“William. Wot’s yours?”
“Helbert. Wot yer doin’ ’ere?”
“Lookin’ for adventures,” said William. “It’s an extra day, you know. I want to-day to be quite different from an ornery day. I want some adventures; I’d like to be a gipsy, too,” he ended, wistfully.
Helbert merely stared at him.
“Would they take me?” went on William, nodding his head in the direction of the caravans. “I’d soon learn to be a gipsy. I’d do all they told me. I’ve always wanted to be a gipsy—next to a Red Indian and a pirate, and there don’t seem to be any Red Indians or pirates in this country.”
Helbert once more merely stared at him. William’s hopes sank.
“I’ve not got any gipsy clothes,” he said, “but p’raps they’d give me some.”
Enviously William looked at Helbert’s ragged jersey and knickers and bare feet. Enviously Helbert looked at William’s suit. Suddenly Helbert’s heavy face lightened. He pointed to William’s suit.
“Swop,” he said, succinctly.
“Don’t you really mind?” said William, humbly and gratefully.
The exchange was effected behind a bush. William carefully transferred his packet of provisions and his disguise from his pocket to the pocket of Helbert’s ragged knickers. Then, while Helbert was still donning waistcoat and coat, William swaggered into the open space round the fire. His heart was full to bursting. He was a gipsy of the gipsies.
“’Ello,” he called, in swaggering friendly greeting to the gipsy children. But his friendliness was not returned.
“’E’s stole Helbert’s clothes.”
“You wait till my Dad ketches yer. ’E’ll wallop yer.”
“Ma! ’E’s got our Helbert’s jersey on.”
A woman appeared suddenly at the door of the caravan. She was larger and dirtier and fiercer-looking than anyone William had ever seen before. She advanced upon William, and William, forgetting his dignity as a hero of adventures, fled through the wood in terror, till he could flee no more.
Then he stopped, and discovering that the fat woman was not pursuing him, sat down and leant against a tree to rest. He took out his crumpled packet of provisions, ate one cake and put the rest back again into his pocket. He felt that his extra day had opened propitiously. He was a gipsy. William never felt happier than when he had completely shed his own identity.
He did not regret leaving the members of the gipsy encampment. He had not really liked the look of any of them. There had been something unfriendly even about Helbert. He preferred to be a gipsy on his own. He ran and leapt. He turned cart wheels. He climbed trees. He was riotously happy. He was a gipsy.
Suddenly he saw a little old man stretched out at full length beneath a tree. The little old man was watching something in the grass through a magnifying glass. On one side of him lay a notebook, on the other a large japanned tin case. William, full of curiosity, crept cautiously towards him through the grass on the other side of the tree. He peered round the tree-trunk, and the little old man looking up suddenly found William’s face within a few inches of his own.
“Sh!” said the little old man. “A rare specimen! Ah! Gone! My movement, I am afraid. Never mind. I had it under observation for quite fifteen minutes. And I have a specimen of it.”
He began to write in his notebook. Then he looked up again at William.
“Who are you, boy?” he said suddenly.
“I’m a gipsy,” said William proudly.
“What’s your name?”
“Helbert,” said William without hesitation.
“Well, Albert,” said the little old gentleman, “would you like to earn sixpence by carrying this case to my house? It’s just at the end of the wood.”
Without a word William took the case and set off beside the little old gentleman. The little old gentleman carried the notebook, and William carried the japanned tin case.
“An interesting life, a gipsy’s, I should think,” said the old gentleman.
Memories of stories he had read about gipsies returned to William.
“I wasn’t born a gipsy,” he said. “I was stole by the gipsies when I was a baby.”
The little old gentleman turned to peer at William over his spectacles.
“Really?” he said. “That’s interesting—most interesting. What are your earliest recollections previous to being stolen?”
William was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was William no longer. He was not even Helbert. He was Evelyn de Vere, the hero of “Stolen by Gipsies,” which he had read a few months ago.
“Oh, I remember a kinder palace an’ a garden with stachues an’ peacocks an’—er—waterfalls an’—er—flowers an’ things, an’ a black man what came in the night an’ took me off, an’ I’ve gotter birthmark somewhere what’ll identify me,” he ended, with modest pride.
“Dear me!” squeaked the little old man, greatly impressed. “How interesting! How very interesting!”
They had reached the little old gentleman’s house. A very prim old lady opened the door.
“You’re late, Augustus,” she said sternly.
“A most interesting specimen,” murmured Augustus deprecatingly. “I found it as I was on the point of returning home and forgot the hour.”
The prim lady was looking up and down William.
“Who is this boy?” she said, still more sternly.
“Ah!” said the old gentleman, as if glad to change the subject, “he is a little gipsy.”
“Nasty creatures!” put in the lady fiercely.
“But he has told me his story,” said Augustus eagerly, peering at William again over the top of his spectacles. “Interesting—most interesting. If you’ll just come into my study with me a moment.”
The lady pointed to a chair in the hall.
“Sit there, boy,” she said to William.
After a few minutes she and the little old gentleman came into the hall again. “Where’s this birthmark you speak of?” said the old lady severely.
Without a moment’s hesitation, William pointed to a small black mark on his wrist.
The lady looked at it suspiciously.
“My brother will go back with you to the encampment to verify your strange story,” she said. “If it is untrue I hope they will be very severe with you. Don’t be long, Augustus.”
“No, Sophia,” said Augustus meekly, setting off with William.
William was rather silent. It was strange how adventures seemed to have a way of getting beyond control.
“I don’ remember the peacocks very plain,” he said at last.
“Hush!” said the old man, taking out his magnifying glass. He crept up to a tree-trunk. He gazed at it in a rapt silence.
“Most interesting,” he said. “I much regret having left my notebook at home.”
“An’, of course,” said William, “anyone might dream about stachues.”
They found that the encampment had gone. There was no mistake about it. There were the smouldering remains of the fire and the marks of the wheels of the caravan. But the encampment had disappeared. They went to the end of the wood, but there were no signs of it along any of the three roads that met there. The little old gentleman was distraught.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” he said. “How unfortunate! Do you know where they were going next?”
“No,” said William, truthfully.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! What shall we do?”
“Let’s go back to your house,” said William trustingly. “I should think it’s about dinner time.”
“Well,” said Sophia grimly, “you’ve kidnapped a child from a gipsy encampment, and I hope you’re prepared to take the consequences.”
“Oh, dear,” said the old gentleman, almost in tears. “What a day! And it opened so propitiously. I watched a perfect example of a scavenger beetle at work for nearly half an hour and then—this.”
William was watching them with a perfectly expressionless face.
“Never mind,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what happens to-day. It’s extra.”
“We must keep the boy,” said Augustus, “till we have made inquiries.”
“Then he must be washed,” said Sophia firmly, “and those dreadful clothes must be fumigated.”
William submitted to the humiliating process of being washed by a buxom servant. He noticed, with misgiving, that his birthmark disappeared in the process. He resisted all attempts on the part of the maid-servant at intimate conversation.
“A deaf moot, that’s wot I calls ’im,” said the maid indignantly, “an’ me wastin’ my kindness on ’im an’ takin’ a hinterest in ’im an’ ’im treatin’ me with scornful silence like. A deaf moot ’e is.”
The lady called Sophia had entered, carrying a short, white, beflounced garment.
“This is the only thing I can find about your size, boy,” she said. “It’s a fancy dress I had made for a niece of mine about your size. Although it has a flimsy appearance, the thing is made on a warm wool lining. My niece was subject to bronchitis. You will not find it cold. You can just wear it while you have dinner, while your clothes are being—er—heated.”
A delicious smell was emanating from a saucepan on the fire. William decided to endure anything rather than risk being ejected before that smell materialised.
He meekly submitted to Helbert’s garments being taken from him. He meekly submitted to being dressed in the white, beflounced costume. He remembered to take his two paper bags from the pockets of Helbert’s knickers and tried, unsuccessfully, to find pockets in the costume he was wearing, and finally sat on them. Then, tastefully arrayed as a Fairy Queen, he sat down at the kitchen table to a large plateful of stew. It was delicious stew. William felt amply rewarded for all the indignities to which he was submitting. The servant sat opposite watching him.
“Is all gipsies deaf moots?” she said sarcastically.
“I’m not an ornery gipsy,” said William, without raising his eyes from his plate, or ceasing his appreciative and hearty consumption of Irish stew. “I was stole by the gipsies, I was. I’ve gotter birthmark somewhere where you can’t see it what’ll identify me.”
“Lor!” said the maid.
“Yes, an’ I rec’lect peacocks an’ stachues—an’—folks walkin’ about in crowns.”
“Crikey!” said the maid, filling his plate again with stew.
“Yes,” said William, attacking it with undiminished gusto, “an’ the suit I was wearin’ when they stole me is all embroidered with crowns an’ peacocks an’—an’——”
“An’ stachues, I suppose,” said the servant.
“Yes,” said William absently.
“An’ you was wearin’ silver shoes an’ stockings, I suppose.”
“Gold,” corrected William, scraping his plate clean of the last morsel.
“Lor!” said the maid, setting a large plate of pudding before him. “Now, while you’re a-heatin’ of that I’ll jus’ pop round to a friend next door an’ bring of ’er in. I shun’t like ’er to miss ’earin’ you talk—all dressed up, like what you are, too. It’s a fair treat, it is.”
She went, closing the door cautiously behind her.
William disposed of the pudding and considered the situation. He felt that this part of the adventure had gone quite far enough. He did not wish to wait till the maid returned. He did not wish to wait till Augustus or Sophia had “made inquiries.”
He opened the kitchen door. The hall was empty. Sophia and Augustus were upstairs enjoying their after-dinner nap. William tiptoed into the hall and put on one of the coats.
Fortunately, Augustus was a very small man, and the coat was not much too large for William. William gave a sigh of relief as he realised that his humiliating costume was completely hidden. Next he put on one of Augustus’s hats.
There was no doubt at all that it was slightly too big. Then he returned to the kitchen, took his two precious paper packets from the chair, put them into Augustus’s coat pockets and crept to the front door. It opened noiselessly. William tiptoed silently and ungracefully down the path to the road.
All was still. The road was empty.
It seemed a suitable moment to assume the disguise. With all the joy and pride of the artist, William donned his precious false beard. Then he began to walk jauntily up the road.
*****
Suddenly he noticed a figure in front of him. It was the figure of a very, very old man, toiling laboriously up the hill, bending over a stick. William, as an artist, never scorned to learn. He found a stick in the ditch and began to creep up the hill with little faltering steps, bending over his stick.
He was thoroughly happy again.
He was not William.
He was not even Helbert.
He was a very old man, with a beard, walking up a hill.
The old man in front of him turned into the workhouse gates, which were at the top of the hill. William followed. The old man sat on a bench in a courtyard. William sat beside him. The old man was very short-sighted.
“’Ello, Thomas,” he said.
William gave a non-committal grunt. He took out his battered paper bag and handed a few fragments of crumbled cake to the old man. The old man ate them. William, thrilling with joy and pride, gave him some more. He ate them. A man in uniform came out of the door of the workhouse.
“Arternoon, George,” he said to the old man.
He looked closely at William as he passed.
Then he came back and looked still more closely at William. Then he said: “’Ere!” and whipped off William’s hat. Then he said: “Well, I’m——!” and whipped off William’s beard. Then he said: “I’ll be——” and whipped off William’s coat.
William stood revealed as the Fairy Queen in the middle of the workhouse courtyard.
The short-sighted old man began to chuckle in a high, quavering voice. “It’s a lady out of a circus,” he said. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It’s a lady out of a circus!”
The man in uniform staggered back with one hand to his head.
WILLIAM STOOD REVEALED AS THE FAIRY QUEEN IN THE
MIDDLE OF THE COURTYARD. THE SHORT-SIGHTED OLD
MAN BEGAN TO CHUCKLE. “IT’S A LADY OUT OF
A CIRCUS! OH, DEAR! OH, DEAR!”
“Gor’ blimey!” he ejaculated. “’Ave I gone mad, or am I a-dreamin’ it?”
“It’s a lady out of a circus. He! He!” cackled the old man.
But William had gathered up his scattered possessions indignantly and fled, struggling into the coat as he did so. He ran along the road that skirted the workhouse, then, finding that he was not pursued, and that the road was empty, adjusted his hat and beard and buttoned his coat.
THE MAN IN UNIFORM
STAGGERED BACK WITH
ONE HAND TO HIS HEAD.
At a bend in the road there was a wayside seat already partially occupied by a young couple. William, feeling slightly shaken by the events of the last hour, sat down beside them. He sat there for some minutes, listening idly to their conversation, before he realised with horror who they were. He decided to get up and unostentatiously shuffle away. They did not seem to have noticed him so far. But Miss Flower was demanding a bunch of the catkin palm that grew a little farther down the road. Robert, William’s elder brother, with the air of a knight setting off upon a dangerous quest for his ladye, went to get it for her. Miss Flower turned to William.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
William shaded the side of his face from her with his hand and uttered a sound, which was suggestive of violent pain or grief, but whose real and only object was to disguise his natural voice.
Miss Flower moved nearer to him on the seat.
“Are you in trouble?” she said sweetly.
William, at a loss, repeated the sound.
She tried to peer into his face.
“Could—could I help at all?” she said, in a voice whose womanly sympathy was entirely wasted on William.
William covered his face with both his hands and emitted a bellow of rage and desperation.
Robert was returning with the catkins. Miss Flower went to meet him.
“Robert,” she said, “have you any money? I’ve left my purse at home. There’s a poor old man here in dreadful trouble.”
Robert’s sole worldly possessions at that moment were two and sevenpence halfpenny. He gave her half a crown. She handed it to William, and William, keeping his face still covered with one hand pocketed the half-crown with the other.
“Do speak to him,” whispered Miss Flower. “See if you can help him at all. He may be ill.”
Robert sat down next to William and cleared his throat nervously.
“Now, my man——” he began, then stopped abruptly, staring at all that could be seen of William’s face.
He tore off the hat and beard.
“You little wretch! And whose coat are you wearing, you little idiot?”
He tore open the coat. The sight it revealed was too much for him. He sank back upon the seat with a groan.
Miss Flower sat on the grass by the roadside and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.
“Oh, William!” she said. “You are priceless. I’d just love to walk through the village with you like that. Will you come with us, Robert?”
“No,” said Robert wildly. “At every crisis of my life that boy turns up and always in something ridiculous. He’s—he’s more like a nightmare than a boy.”
*****
William faced a family council consisting of his father and mother, and Robert and Ethel.
William was still attired as a Fairy Queen.
“Well,” said William, in a tone of disgust. “You said to-day was extra. I thought it didn’t count. I thought nothin’ anyone did to-day counted. I thought it was an extra day. An’ there’s Robert takin’ a half-crown off me an’ no one seems to mind that. An’ Robert tellin’ Miss Flower, on the seat, how he’d wanted to live a better life since he met her.”
Robert’s face went scarlet.
“An’ then takin’ a half-crown off me,” William continued. “I don’ call that livin’ a better life. She gave it me an’ he took it off me. I don’ call that being noble like what he said she made him want to be. I don’——”
“Shut up,” said Robert desperately. “Shut up and I’ll give you the wretched thing back.”
“All right,” said William, receiving the half-crown.
“What I want to know, William,” said Mrs. Brown almost tearfully, “is—where are your clothes?”
William looked down at his airy costume.
“Oh, she took ’em off me an’ put this thing on me. She said she wanted to heat ’em up. I dunno why. She took off my green jersey an’ my——”
“You weren’t wearing a jersey,” screamed Mrs. Brown.
William’s jaw dropped.
“Oh, those clothes! Crumbs! I’d forgotten about those clothes. I—I suppose Helbert’s still gottem.”
Mr. Brown covered his eyes with his hand.
“Take him away,” he groaned. ?