william's family were going to the seaside for february. it was not an ideal month for the seaside, but william's father's doctor had ordered him a complete rest and change.
"we shall have to take william with us, you know," his wife had said as they discussed plans.
"good heavens!" groaned mr. brown. "i thought it was to be a rest cure."
"yes, but you know what he is," his wife urged. "i daren't leave him with anyone. certainly not with ethel. we shall have to take them both. ethel will help with him."
ethel was william's grown-up sister.
"all right," agreed her husband finally. "you can take all responsibility. i formally disown him from now till we get back. i don't care what trouble he lands you in. you know what he is and you deliberately take him away with me on a rest cure!"
"it can't be helped dear," said his wife mildly.
william was thrilled by the news. it was several years since he had been at the seaside.
"will i be able to go swimmin'?"
"it won't be too cold! well, if i wrap up warm, will i be able to go swimmin'?"
"can i catch fishes?"
"are there lots of smugglers smugglin' there?"
"well, i'm only askin', you needn't get mad!"
one afternoon mrs. brown missed her best silver tray and searched the house high and low for it wildly, while dark suspicions of each servant in turn arose in her usually unsuspicious breast.
it was finally discovered in the garden. william had dug a large hole in one of the garden beds. into the bottom of this he had fitted the tray and had lined the sides with bricks. he had then filled it with water, and taking off his shoes and stockings stepped up and down his narrow pool. he was distinctly aggrieved by mrs. brown's reproaches.
"well, i was practisin' paddlin', ready for goin' to the seaside. i didn't mean to rune your tray. you talk as if i meant to rune your tray. i was only practisin' paddlin'."
at last the day of departure arrived. william was instructed to put his things ready on his bed, and his mother would then come and pack for him. he summoned her proudly over the balusters after about twenty minutes.
"i've got everythin' ready, mother."
mrs. brown ascended to his room.
upon his bed was a large pop-gun, a football, a dormouse in a cage, a punchball on a stand, a large box of "curios," and a buckskin which was his dearest possession and had been presented to him by an uncle from south africa.
mrs. brown sat down weakly on a chair.
"you can't possibly take any of these things," she said faintly but firmly.
"well, you said put my things on the bed for you to pack an' i've put them on the bed, an' now you say——"
"i meant clothes."
"oh, clothes!" scornfully. "i never thought of clothes."
"well, you can't take any of these things, anyway."
william hastily began to defend his collection of treasures.
"i mus' have the pop-gun 'cause you never know. there may be pirates an' smugglers down there, an' you can kill a man with a pop-gun if you get near enough and know the right place, an' i might need it. an' i must have the football to play on the sands with, an' the punchball to practise boxin' on, an' i must have the dormouse, 'cause—'cause to feed him, an' i must have this box of things and this skin to show to folks i meet down at the seaside, 'cause they're int'restin'."
but mrs. brown was firm, and william reluctantly yielded.
in a moment of weakness, finding that his trunk was only three-quarter filled by his things, she slipped in his beloved buckskin, while william himself put the pop-gun inside when no one was looking.
they had been unable to obtain a furnished house, so had to be content with a boarding house. mr. brown was eloquent on the subject.
"if you're deliberately turning that child loose into a boarding-house full, presumably, of quiet, inoffensive people, you deserve all you get. it's nothing to do with me. i'm going to have a rest cure. i've disowned him. he can do as he likes."
"it can't be helped, dear," said mrs. brown mildly.
mr. brown had engaged one of the huts on the beach chiefly for william's use, and william proudly furnished its floor with the buckskin.
"it was killed by my uncle," he announced to the small crowd of children at the door who had watched with interest his painstaking measuring of the floor in order to place his treasure in the exact centre. "he killed it dead—jus' like this."
william had never heard the story of the death of the buck, and therefore had invented one in which he had gradually come to confuse himself with his uncle in the rôle of hero.
"it was walkin' about an' i—he—met it. i hadn't got no gun, and it sprung at me an' i caught hold of its neck with one hand an' i broke off its horns with the other, an' i knocked it over. an' it got up an' ran at me—him—again, an' i jus' tripped it up with my foot an' it fell over again, an' then i jus' give it one big hit with my fist right on its head, an' it killed it an' it died!"
there was an incredulous gasp.
then there came a clear, high voice from behind the crowd.
"little boy, you are not telling the truth."
william looked up into a thin, spectacled face.
"i wasn't tellin' it to you," he remarked, wholly unabashed.
a little girl with dark curls took up the cudgels quite needlessly in william's defence.
"he's a very brave boy to do all that," she said indignantly. "so don't you go saying things to him."
"well," said william, flattered but modest, "i didn't say i did it, did i? i said my uncle—well, partly my uncle."
mr. percival jones looked down at him in righteous wrath.
"you're a very wicked little boy. i'll tell your father—er—i'll tell your sister."
for ethel was approaching in the distance and mr. percival jones was in no way loth to converse with her.
mr. percival jones was a thin, pale, æsthetic would-be poet who lived and thrived on the admiration of the elderly ladies of his boarding-house, and had done so for the past ten years. once he had published a volume of poems at his own expense. he lived at the same boarding-house as the browns, and had seen ethel in the distance to meals. he had admired the red lights in her dark hair and the blue of her eyes, and had even gone so far as to wonder whether she possessed the solid and enduring qualities which he would require of one whom in his mind he referred to as his "future spouse."
he began to walk down the beach with her.
"i should like to speak to you—er—about your brother, miss brown," he began, "if you can spare me the time, of course. i trust i do not er—intrude or presume. he is a charming little man but—er—i fear—not veracious. may i accompany you a little on your way? i am—er—much attracted to your—er—family. i—er—should like to know you all better. i am—er—deeply attached to your—er—little brother, but grieved to find that he does not—er—adhere to the truth in his statements. i—er—"
miss brown's blue eyes were dancing with merriment.
"oh, don't you worry about william," she said. "he's awful. it's much best just to leave him alone. isn't the sea gorgeous to-day?"
they walked along the sands.
meanwhile william had invited his small defender into his hut.
"you can look round," he said graciously. "you've seen my skin what i—he—killed, haven't you? this is my gun. you put a cork in there and it comes out hard when you shoot it. it would kill anyone," impressively, "if you did it near enough to them and at the right place. an' i've got a dormouse, an' a punchball, an' a box of things, an' a football, but they wouldn't let me bring them," bitterly.
"it's a lovely skin," said the little girl. "what's your name?"
"william. what's yours?"
"peggy."
"well, let's be on a desert island, shall we? an' nothin' to eat nor anything, shall we? come on."
she nodded eagerly.
"how lovely!"
they wandered out on to the promenade, and among a large crowd of passers-by bemoaned the lonely emptiness of the island and scanned the horizon for a sail. in the far distance on the cliffs could be seen the figures of mr. percival jones and william's sister, walking slowly away from the town.
at last they turned towards the hut.
"we must find somethin' to eat," said william firmly. "we can't let ourselves starve to death."
"shrimps?" suggested peggy cheerfully.
"we haven't got nets," said william. "we couldn't save them from the wreck."
"periwinkles?"
"there aren't any on this island. i know! seaweed! an' we'll cook it."
"oh, how lovely!"
he gathered up a handful of seaweed and they entered the hut, leaving a white handkerchief tied on to the door to attract the attention of any passing ship. the hut was provided with a gas ring and william, disregarding his family's express injunction, lit this and put on a saucepan filled with water and seaweed.
"we'll pretend it's a wood fire," he said. "we couldn't make a real wood fire out on the prom. they'd stop us. so we'll pretend this is. an' we'll pretend we saved a saucepan from the wreck."
after a few minutes he took off the pan and drew out a long green strand.
"you eat it first," he said politely.
the smell of it was not pleasant. peggy drew back.
"oh, no, you first!"
"no, you," said william nobly. "you look hungrier than me."
she bit off a piece, chewed it, shut her eyes and swallowed.
"now you," she said with a shade of vindictiveness in her voice. "you're not going to not have any."
william took a mouthful and shivered.
"i think it's gone bad," he said critically.
peggy's rosy face had paled.
"i'm going home," she said suddenly.
"you can't go home on a desert island," said william severely.
"well, i'm going to be rescued then," she said.
"i think i am, too," said william.
it was lunch time when william arrived at the boarding-house. mr. percival jones had moved his place so as to be nearer ethel. he was now convinced that she was possessed of every virtue his future "spouse" could need. he conversed brightly and incessantly during the meal. mr. brown grew restive.
"the man will drive me mad," he said afterwards. "bleating away! what's he bleating about anyway? can't you stop him bleating, ethel? you seem to have influence. bleat! bleat! bleat! good lord! and me here for a rest cure!"
at this point he was summoned to the telephone and returned distraught.
"it's an unknown female," he said. "she says that a boy of the name of william from this boarding-house has made her little girl sick by forcing her to eat seaweed. she says it's brutal. does anyone know i'm here for a rest cure? where is the boy? good heavens! where is the boy?"
but william, like peggy, had retired from the world for a space. he returned later on in the afternoon, looking pale and chastened. he bore the reproaches of his family in stately silence.
mr. percival jones was in great evidence in the drawing-room.
"and soon—er—soon the—er—spring will be with us once more," he was saying in his high-pitched voice as he leant back in his chair and joined the tips of his fingers together. "the spring—ah—the spring! i have a—er—little effort i—er—composed on—er—the coming of spring—i—er—will read to you some time if you will—ah—be kind enough to—er—criticise—ah—impartially."
"criticise!" they chorused. "it will be above criticism. oh, do read it to us, mr. jones."
"i will—er—this evening." his eyes wandered to the door, hoping and longing for his beloved's entrance. but ethel was with her father at a matinée at the winter gardens and he looked and longed in vain. in spite of this, however, the springs of his eloquence did not run dry, and he held forth ceaselessly to his little circle of admirers.
"the simple—ah—pleasures of nature. how few of us—alas!—have the—er—gift of appreciating them rightly. this—er—little seaside hamlet with its—er—sea, its—er—promenade, its—er—winter gardens! how beautiful it is! how few appreciate it rightly."
here william entered and mr. percival jones broke off abruptly. he disliked william.
"ah! here comes our little friend. he looks pale. remorse, my young friend? ah, beware of untruthfulness. beware of the beginnings of a life of lies and deception." he laid a hand on william's head and cold shivers ran down william's spine. "'be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever,' as the poet says." there was murder in william's heart.
at that minute ethel entered.
"no," she snapped. "i sat next a man who smelt of bad tobacco. i hate men who smoke bad tobacco."
mr. jones assumed an expression of intense piety.
"i may boast," he said sanctimoniously, "that i have never thus soiled my lips with drink or smoke ..."
there was an approving murmur from the occupants of the drawing-room.
william had met his father in the passage outside the drawing-room. mr. brown was wearing a hunted expression.
"can i go into the drawing-room?" he said bitterly, "or is he bleating away in there?"
they listened. from the drawing-room came the sound of a high-pitched voice.
mr. brown groaned.
"good lord!" he moaned. "and i'm here for a rest cure and he comes bleating into every room in the house. is the smoking-room safe? does he smoke?"
mr. percival jones was feeling slightly troubled in his usually peaceful conscience. he could honestly say that he had never smoked. he could honestly say that he had never drank. but in his bedroom reposed two bottles of brandy, purchased at the advice of an aunt "in case of emergencies." in his bedroom also was a box of cigars that he had bought for a cousin's birthday gift, but which his conscience had finally forbidden to present. he decided to consign these two emblems of vice to the waves that very evening.
meanwhile william had returned to the hut and was composing a tale of smugglers by the light of a candle. he was much intrigued by his subject. he wrote fast in an illegible hand in great sloping lines, his brows frowning, his tongue protruding from his mouth as it always did in moments of mental strain.
his sympathies wavered between the smugglers and the representatives of law and order. his orthography was the despair of his teachers.
"'ho,' sez dick savage," he wrote. "ho! gadzooks! rol in the bottles of beer up the beech. fill your pockets with the baccy from the bote. quick, now! gadzooks! methinks we are observed!" he glared round in the darkness. in less time than wot it takes to rite this he was srounded by pleese-men and stood, proud and defiant, in the light of there electrick torches wot they had wiped quick as litening from their busums.
"'surrender!' cried one, holding a gun at his brain and a drorn sord at his hart, 'surrender or die!'
"'never,' said dick savage, throwing back his head, proud and defiant, 'never. do to me wot you will, you dirty dogs, i will never surrender. soner will i die.'
"one crule brute hit him a blo on the lips and he sprang back, snarling with rage. in less time than wot it takes to rite this he had sprang at his torturer's throte and his teeth met in one mighty bite. his torturer dropped ded and lifless at his feet.
"'ho!' cried dick savage, throwing back his head, proud and defiant again, 'so dies any of you wot insults my proud manhood. i will meet my teeth in your throtes.'
"for a minit they stood trembling, then one, bolder than the rest, lept forward and tide dick savage's hands with rope behind his back. another took from his pockets bottles of beer and tobacco in large quantities.
"'ho!' they cried exulting. 'ho! dick savage the smugler caught at last!'
"dick savage gave one proud and defiant laugh, and, bringing his tide hands over his hed he bit the rope with one mighty bite.
"'ho! ho!' he cried, throwing back his proud hed, 'ho, ho! you dirty dogs!'
"then, draining to the dregs a large bottle of poison he had concealed in his busum he fell ded and lifless at there feet.'"
there was a timid knock at the door and william, scowling impatiently, rose to open it.
"what d'you want?" he said curtly.
a little voice answered from the dusk.
"it's me—peggy. i've come to see how you are, william. they don't know i've come. i was awful sick after that seaweed this morning, william."
william looked at her with a superior frown.
"go away," he said, "i'm busy."
"what you doing?" she said, poking her little curly head into the doorway.
"i'm writin' a tale."
she clasped her hands.
"oh, how lovely! oh, william, do read it to me. i'd love it!"
mollified, he opened the door and she took her seat on his buckskin on the floor, and william sat by the candle, clearing his throat for a minute before he began. during the reading she never took her eyes off him. at the end she drew a deep breath.
"oh, william, it's beautiful. william, are there smugglers now?"
"oh, yes. millions," he said carelessly.
"here?"
"of course there are!"
she went to the door and looked out at the dusk.
"i'd love to see one. what do they smuggle, william?"
he came and joined her at the door, walking with a slight swagger as became a man of literary fame.
"oh, beer an' cigars an' things. millions of them."
a furtive figure was passing the door, casting suspicious glances to left and right. he held his coat tightly round him, clasping something inside it.
"i expect that's one," said william casually.
they watched the figure out of sight.
suddenly william's eyes shone.
"let's stalk him an' catch him," he said excitedly. "come on. let's take some weapons." he seized his pop-gun from a corner. "you take—" he looked round the room—"you take the wastepaper basket to put over his head an'—an' pin down his arms an' somethin' to tie him up!—i know—the skin i—he—shot in africa. you can tie its paws in front of him. come on! let's catch him smugglin'."
he stepped out boldly into the dusk with his pop-gun, followed by the blindly obedient peggy carrying the wastepaper basket in one hand and the skin in the other.
mr. percival jones was making quite a little ceremony of consigning his brandy and cigars to the waves. he had composed "a little effort" upon it which began,
"o deeps, receive these objects vile,
which nevermore mine eyes shall soil."
he went down to the edge of the sea and, taking a bottle in each hand, held them out at arms' length, while he began in his high-pitched voice,
"o deeps, receive these——"
he stopped. a small boy stood beside him, holding out at him the point of what in the semi-darkness mr. jones took to be a loaded rifle. william mistook his action in holding out the bottles.
"it's no good tryin' to drink it up," he said severely. "we've caught you smugglin'."
mr. percival jones laughed nervously.
"my little man!" he said, "that's a very dangerous—er—thing for you to have! suppose you hand it over to me, now, like a good little chap."
william recognised his voice.
"fancy you bein' a smuggler all the time!" he said with righteous indignation in his voice.
"take away that—er—nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive plaintively.
"you—ah—don't understand it. it—er—might go off."
william was not a boy to indulge in half measures. he meant to carry the matter off with a high hand.
"i'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus' what i tell you."
mr. percival jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he strove to make playful. "is it—ah—is it loaded? it's—ah—unwise, little boy. most unwise. er—give it to me to—er—take care of. it—er—might go off, you know."
william moved the muzzle of his weapon, and mr. percival jones shuddered from head to foot. william was a brave boy, but he had experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his captive. the first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had, however, reassured him. he instantly knew himself to be the better man. his captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. as a matter of fact mr. percival jones was temperamentally an abject coward.
"you walk up to the seats," commanded william. "i've took you prisoner for smugglin' an'—an'—jus' walk up to the seats."
mr. percival jones obeyed with alacrity.
"don't—er—press anything, little boy," he pleaded as he went. "it—ah—might go off by accident. you might do—ah—untold damage."
peggy, armed with the wastepaper basket and the skin, followed open-mouthed.
at the seat william paused.
"peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down—case he struggles, an' tie the skin wot i shot round him, case he struggles."
peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. their victim made no protest. he seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. the only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that william held out at him in the darkness. he was hardly aware of the wastepaper basket thrust over his head. he watched william anxiously through the basket-work.
"be careful," he murmured. "be careful, boy!"
he hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by peggy, the tail tied to one front paw. unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.
then came the irate summons of peggy's nurse through the dusk.
"oh, william," she said panting with excitement, "i don't want to leave you. oh, william, he might kill you!"
"you go on. i'm all right," he said with conscious valour. "he can't do nothin' 'cause i've got a gun an' i can shoot him dead,"—mr. percival jones shuddered afresh,—"an' he's all tied up an' i've took him prisoner an' i'm goin' to take him home."
"oh, william, you are brave!" she whispered in the darkness as she flitted away to her nurse.
william blushed with pride and embarrassment.
mr. percival jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint.
unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him.
"it's all right, little boy," he said soothingly, "quite all right. i'm—er—your friend. don't—ah—get annoyed, little boy. don't—ah—get annoyed. won't you put your gun down, little man? won't you let me carry it for you?"
william walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.
"i've took you prisoner for smugglin'," he repeated doggedly. "i'm takin' you home. you're my prisoner. i've took you."
they met no one on the road, though mr. percival jones threw longing glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue. he was afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor to murder. he saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened up the walk and up the stairs. the drawing-room door was open. there was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange persecution. he entered, followed closely by william. it was about the time he had promised to read his "little effort" on the coming of spring to his circle of admirers. a group of elderly ladies sat round the fire awaiting him. ethel was writing. they turned as he entered and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. it was that gasp that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur rug was tied round his arms.
"mr. jones!" they gasped.
he gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor, revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.
"mr. jones!" they repeated.
"i caught him smugglin'" said william proudly. "i caught him smugglin' beer by the sea an' he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled an' he had thousands an' thousands of cigars all over him, an' i caught him, an' he's a smuggler an' i brought him up here with my gun. he's a smuggler an' i took him prisoner."
mr. jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the wickerwork of his basket. he moistened his lips. "this is an outrage," he spluttered.
horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.
"he was drinkin' 'em by the sea," said william.
"mr. jones!" they chorused again.
he flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of the establishment who stood by the door.
"i will not brook such treatment," he stammered in fury. "i leave your roof to-night. i am outraged—humiliated. i—i disdain to explain. i—leave your roof to-night."
"mr. jones!" they said once more.
mr. jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at william on his way.
"you wicked boy! you wicked little, untruthful boy," he said.
william looked after him. "he's my prisoner an' they've let him go," he said aggrievedly.
ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. mr. brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.
"is he still bleating there?" he said. "is this still the only corner where i can be sure of keeping my sanity? is he reading his beastly poetry upstairs? is he——"
"he's goin'," said william moodily. "he's goin' before dinner. they've sent for his cab. he's mad 'cause i said he was a smuggler. he was a smuggler 'cause i saw him doin' it, an' i took him prisoner an' he got mad an' he's goin'. an' they're mad at me 'cause i took him prisoner. you'd think they'd be glad at me catchin' smugglers, but they're not," bitterly. "an' mother says she'll tell you an' you'll be mad too an'——"
mr. brown raised his hand.
"one minute, my son," he said. "your story is confused. do i understand that mr. jones is going and that you are the cause of his departure?"
"yes, 'cause he got mad 'cause i said he was a smuggler an' he was a smuggler an' they're mad at me now, an'——"
mr. brown laid a hand on his son's shoulder.
"there are moments, william," he said, "when i feel almost affectionate towards you."
