Just -- William | Page 4

called Ex--" He pursued an elusive word through his memory, lost track of it and brought out somewhat uncertainly, "Excelsior. Well, he found this sword called Excelsior stuck in a solid rock. Like this--" He picked up a couple of bricks that lay in a corner of the barn and placed them together, then put the knife between them, its handle protruding. "An' all the others pulled an' pulled an' couldn't get it out an' then this man Arthur came along an'--"
"What did you say the sword was called?" said Douglas.
"Excelsior," said William testily, "an' I wish you wouldn't keep on interruptin'."
"Why?" said Douglas."
"Why, what?" said William.
"Why was it called Excelsior?"
"Well, why shouldn't it be?" said William.
"Why should it be called anything?"
"Well, it was," said William. "You're called something, aren't you?""
"Yes," said Douglas, "but I'm a boy, not a sword. Boys are called things."
"I thought Excelsior was the name of that man in po'try that carried a strange device over a raging torment," said Henry.
"Look here," said William in a tone of desperation, "are you goin' to let me tell you this story or aren't you?"
"Oh, all right," said Henry. "Go on."
"You might as well call a--call a mincing-machine, Ex-Ex--what you said," said Douglas.
William ignored him. "Well, all the others pulled an' pulled an' pulled an' couldn't get it out."
"You said that before," said Douglas.
"The nex' time you int'rupt--" said William threateningly, then, a note of pathos invading his voice, "You asked me to tell you this story, didn't you?"
"We didn't ask you to go on and on sayin' the same thing over an' over again," said Douglas, adding, after a moment's thought, "You might as well call a coal shovel Arthur as a sword."
"The sword wasn't called Arthur," said William. "The man was called Arthur. The sword was called Excelsior."
"It must have had the same name as this other man," said Henry. "I know this other man was called Excelsior, 'cause I learnt it once. The shades of night were falling fast an- he met an awful avalanche. I forget the rest, but it was jolly excitin'"
"Gosh!" said William in despair. "Don't you want to hear this story?"
"All right," said Henry pacifically. "Go on."
"Well, all the others pulled an' pulled an' couldn't get it out." He turned a quelling eye on Douglas, who had opened his mouth to speak; Douglas, quelled, closed it again. "An' then this man Arthur came along an' pulled it out like this."
William approached the bread-knife in the manner of a boxer approaching his opponent, spat on his hands, seized the handle, made a feint of pulling against tremendous resistance and finally drew it out and brandished it above his head. "Like this!" he repeated. "An' they made him King."
"Why?" said Douglas.
"What d'you mean, why?" said William.
"Why did they make this Excelsior man King?"
"It was Arthur they made King, you fathead! They made him King because he pulled this Excelsior thing out."
"It looked easy enough," said Douglas. "I bet I could have done it."
"This other one I learnt about in po'try tried a pass an' ended up by gettin' buried in the snow by dogs," said Henry. "It's all comin" back to me."
"It's no use trying to tell you int'restin' tales," said William helplessly. "You haven't any brains."
"Oh, haven't we?" said Douglas, the light of battle in his eye.
"No, you haven't," said William, accepting the challenge. "If you had any brains, you'd understand an ordin'ry story about a man an' a sword like this. You're bats, both of you, that's what you are."
After an exhilarating scuffle, in which Douglas got William on to the ground and sat on him, then Henry sat on them both, then they all rolled about the floor and sat on each other, they scrambled to their feet, panting and dishevelled, with amity fully restored.
"Come on," said William. "Let's see what we've brought to eat."
They moved the packing-case on which Henry had been sitting and revealed their improvised larder.
Each of the three had left his house before the family breakfast, taking with him such provision as he could lay his hands on, to appease the pangs of early morning hunger. William had purloined from the larder the remains of an apple flan, assuring that amenable organ, his conscience, that it was not large enough to form part of another meal for the whole family and that it was a kindness to his mother to solve the problem of its disposal. Henry had brought half a jar of potted meat ("They're always sayin' it goes bad if you don't use it quick, so we'll use it quick to stop it goin' bad") and Douglas half a loaf ("They were all out to tea yesterday an' they're goin' out today an' it's wrong to waste bread so I brought it along"). In addition,