More William | Page 7

why not?" he persisted. "I only want to know why not. That's all I
want to know. It looks a bit funny, doesn't it, to give a party and leave
out your only son, at least,"--with a glance at Robert, and a slight
concession to accuracy--"to leave out one of your only two sons? It
looks a bit queer, surely. That's all I'm thinking of--how it will look."
"A bit higher your end," said Ethel.
"Yes, that's better," said William's mother.
"It's a young folks' party," went on William, warming to his subject. "I
heard you tell Aunt Jane it was a young folks' party. Well, I'm young,
aren't I? I'm eleven. Do you want me any younger? You aren't ashamed
of folks seeing me, are you! I'm not deformed or anything."
"That's right! Put the nail in there, Ethel."
"Just a bit higher. That's right!"
"P'raps you're afraid of what I'll eat," went on William bitterly. "Well,
everyone eats, don't they? They've got to--to live. And you've got
things for us--them--to eat to-night. You don't grudge me just a bit of
supper, do you? You'd think it was less trouble for me to have my bit of
supper with you all, than in a separate room. That's all I'm thinking
of--the trouble----"
William's sister turned round on her ladder and faced the room.
"Can't anyone," she said desperately, "stop that child talking?"
William's brother began to descend his ladder. "I think I can," he said
grimly.
But William had thrown dignity to the winds, and fled.

He went down the hall to the kitchen, where cook hastily interposed
herself between him and the table that was laden with cakes and jellies
and other delicacies.
"Now, Master William," she said sharply, "you clear out of here!"
"I don't want any of your things, cook," said William, magnificently but
untruthfully. "I only came to see how you were getting on. That's all I
came for."
"We're getting on very well indeed, thank you, Master William," she
said with sarcastic politeness, "but nothing for you till to-morrow, when
we can see how much they've left."
She returned to her task of cutting sandwiches. William, from a
respectful distance, surveyed the table with its enticing burden.
"Huh!" he ejaculated bitterly, "think of them sitting and stuffing, and
stuffing, and stuffing away at our food all night! I don't suppose they'll
leave much--not if I know the set that lives round here!"
"Don't judge them all by yourself, Master William," said cook unkindly,
keeping a watchful eye upon him. "Here, Emma, put that rice-mould
away in the pantry. It's for to-morrow's lunch."
Rice-mould! That reminded him.
"Cook," he said ingratiatingly, "are you going to make cream
blanc-mange?"
"I am not, Master William," she said firmly.
"Well," he said, with a short laugh, "it'll be a queer party without cream
blanc-mange! I've never heard of a party without cream blanc-mange!
They'll think it's a bit funny. No one ever gives a party round here
without cream blanc-mange!"
"Don't they indeed, Master William," said cook, with ironic interest.

"No. You'll be making one, p'raps, later on--just a little one, won't
you?"
"And why should I?"
"Well, I'd like to think they had a cream blanc-mange. I think they'd
enjoy it. That's all I'm thinking of."
"Oh, is it? Well, it's your ma that tells me what to make and pays me
for it, not you."
This was a novel idea to William.
He thought deeply.
"Look here!" he said at last, "if I gave you,"--he paused for effect, then
brought out the startling offer--"sixpence, would you make a cream
blanc-mange?"
"I'd want to see your sixpence first," said cook, with a wink at Emma.
William retired upstairs to his bedroom and counted out his
money--twopence was all he possessed. He had expended the enormous
sum of a shilling the day before on a grass snake. It had died in the
night. He must get a cream blanc-mange somehow. His reputation for
omnipotence in the eyes of the little girl next door--a reputation very
dear to him--depended on it. And if cook would do it for sixpence, he
must find sixpence. By fair means or foul it must be done. He'd tried
fair means, and there only remained foul. He went softly downstairs to
the dining-room, where, upon the mantel-piece, reposed the
missionary-box. He'd tell someone next day, or put it back, or
something. Anyway, people did worse things than that in the pictures.
With a knife from the table he extracted the contents--three-halfpence!
He glared at it balefully.
"Three-halfpence!" he said aloud in righteous indignation. "This
supposed to be a Christian house, and three-halfpence is all they can
give to the poor heathen. They can spend pounds and pounds on,"--he

glanced round the room and saw a pyramid of