"Respectful and reposeful, Mrs. de Vere Carter."

"That's it, children dear. Respectful and reposeful. Now, our little new friends, what do I expect you to be?"

No answer.

The Outlaws sat horrified, outraged, shamed.

"You're _such_ shy darlings, aren't you?" she said, stretching out an arm.

William retreated hastily, and Ginger's face was pressed hard against a diamond brooch.

"You won't be shy with us long, I'm sure. We're _so_ happy here. Happy and good. Now, children dear, what is it we must be?"

Again the bored monotonous chant:

"Happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter."

"That's it. Now, darlings, in the front row, you tell me. w.i.l.l.y, pet, you begin. What is it we must be?"

At that moment William was nearer committing murder than at any other time in his life. He caught a gleam in Henry's eye. Henry would remember. William choked but made no answer.

"You tell me then, Harry boy."

Henry went purple and William's spirits rose.

"Ah, you won't be so shy next week, will they, children dear?"

"No, Mrs. de Vere Carter," came the prompt, listless response.

"Now, we'll begin with one of our dear little songs. Give out the books." She seated herself at the piano. "Number five, 'Sparkling Water.' Collect your thoughts, children dear. Are you ready?"

She struck the opening chords.

The Outlaws, though provided with books, did not join in. They had no objection to water as a beverage. They merely objected to singing about it.

Mrs. de Vere Carter rose from the piano.

"Now, we'll play one of our games, children dear. You can begin by yourselves, can't you, darlings? I'll just go across the field and see why little Teddy Wheeler hasn't come. He must be _regular_, mustn't he, laddies dear? Now, what game shall we play. We had 'Puss in the Corner'

last week, hadn't we? We'll have 'Here we go round the mulberry-bush'

this week, shall we? No, not 'Blind Man's Buff,' darling. It's a horrid, rough game. Now, while I'm gone, see if you can make these four shy darlings more at home, will you? And play quietly. Now before I go tell me four things that you must be?"

"Respectful and reposeful and happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter," came the chant.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "GO IT, MEN! CATCH 'EM, BEAT 'EM, KNIFE 'EM, KILL 'EM!"

THE TAMER ROARED.]

She was away about a quarter of an hour. When she returned the game was in full swing, but it was not "Here we go round the mulberry-bush."

There was a screaming, struggling crowd of children in the Village Hall.

Benches were overturned and several chairs broken. With yells and whoops, and blows and struggles, the Tamers tried to tame; with growls and snarls and bites and struggles the animals tried not to be tamed.

Gone was all listlessness and all boredom. And William, his tie hanging in shreds, his coat torn, his head cut, and his voice hoa.r.s.e, led the fray as a Tamer.

"Come on, you!"

"I'll get you!"

"Gr-r-r-r-r!"

"Go it, men! Catch 'em, beat 'em, knife 'em, kill 'em."

The spirited roarings and bellowing of the animals was almost blood-curdling.

Above it all Mrs. de Vere Carter coaxed and expostulated and wrung her hands.

"Respectful and reposeful," "happy and good," "laddies dear," and "w.i.l.l.y" floated unheeded over the tide of battle.

Then somebody (reports afterwards differed as to who it was) rushed out of the door into the field and there the battle was fought to a finish.

From there the Band of Hope (undismissed) reluctantly separated to its various homes, battered and bruised, but blissfully happy.

Mrs. Brown was anxiously awaiting William's return.

When she saw him she gasped and sat down weakly on a hall chair.

"William!"

"I've not," said William quickly, looking at her out of a fast-closing eye, "I've not been playing at either of them--not those what you said I'd not to."

"Then--what----?"

"It was--it was--'Tamers an' Crocerdiles,' an' we played it at the Band of Hope!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE OUTLAWS

It was a half-holiday and William was in his bedroom making careful preparations for the afternoon. On the mantel-piece stood in readiness half a cake (the result of a successful raid on the larder) and a bottle of licorice water. This beverage was made by shaking up a piece of licorice in water. It was much patronised by the band of Outlaws to which William belonged and which met secretly every half-holiday in a disused barn about a quarter of a mile from William's house.

So far the Outlaws had limited their activities to wrestling matches, adventure seeking, and culinary operations. The week before, they had cooked two sausages which William had taken from the larder on cook's night out and had conveyed to the barn beneath his shirt and next his skin. Perhaps "cooked" is too euphemistic a term. To be quite accurate, they had held the sausages over a smoking fire till completely blackened, and then consumed the charred remains with the utmost relish.

William put the bottle of licorice water in one pocket and the half cake in another and was preparing to leave the house in his usual stealthy fashion--through the bathroom window, down the scullery roof, and down the water-pipe hand over hand to the back garden. Even when unenc.u.mbered by the presence of a purloined half cake, William infinitely preferred this mode of exit to the simpler one of walking out of the front-door.

As he came out on to the landing, however, he heard the sound of the opening and shutting of the hall door and of exuberant greetings in the hall.

"Oh! I'm _so_ glad you've come, dear. And is this the baby! The _duck_!

Well, den, how's 'oo, den? Go--o--oo."

This was William's mother.