William—the outlaw

William and Ginger and Douglas (known as the Outlaws) walked slowly down the road to school. It was a very fine afternoon--one of those afternoons which, one feels--certainly the Outlaws felt--it is base ingratitude to spend indoors. The sun was shining and the birds were singing in a particularly inviting way.

“G’omtry,” said William with scornful emphasis and repeated bitterly, “_G’omtry!_”

“Might be worse,” said Douglas, “might be Latin.”

“Might be better,” said Henry, “might be singin’.”

The Outlaws liked singing lessons not because they were musical, but because it involved no mental effort and because the master who taught singing was a poor disciplinarian.

“Might be better still,” said Ginger, “might be nothin’.”

The Outlaws slackened their already very slack pace and their eyes wandered wistfully to the tree-covered hill-tops which lay so invitingly in the distance.

“Afternoon school’s all wrong,” said William suddenly. “Mornin’s bad enough. But _afternoon_----!”

That morning certainly had been bad enough. It had been the sort of morning when everything goes wrong that can go wrong. The Outlaws had incurred the wrath of every master with whom they had come in contact.

“An’ this afternoon!” said Ginger with infinite disgust. “It’ll be worse even than an ordinary afternoon with me havin’ to stay in writin’ lines for old Face.”

“An’ me havin’ to stay in doin’ stuff all over again for ole Stinks.”

It turned out that each one of the four Outlaws would have to stay in after afternoon school as the victim of one or other of the masters whose wrath they had incurred that morning.

William heaved a deep sigh.

“Makes me feel mad,” he said. “Miners havin’ Trades Unions an’ Strikes an’ things to stop ’em doin’ too much work an’ us havin’ to go on an’ on an’ on till we’re wore out. You’d think Parliament’d stop it. People go on writin’ in the papers about people needin’ fresh air an’ then ’stead of lettin’ people have fresh air they shut ’em up in schools all day, mornin’ an’ afternoon, till--till they’re all wore out.”

“Yes,” said Ginger in hearty agreement. “I think that there oughter be a law stoppin’ afternoon school. I think that we’d be much healthier in every way if someone made a law stoppin’ afternoon school so’s we could get a bit of fresh air. I think,” with an air of unctuous virtue, “that it’s our juty to try’n get a bit of fresh air to keep us healthy so’s to save our parents havin’ to pay doctor’s bills.”

Ginger ignored the fact that so far no one in all his healthy young life had ever paid a doctor’s bill for him.

“I’ve a good mind to be a member of Parliament when I grow up,” threatened Douglas, “jus’ to make all schools have a holiday in the afternoons.”

“_An’_ the mornin’,” added Henry dreamily.

But, attractive as this idea was, even the Outlaws felt it was going rather too far.

“No, we’ll have to keep on mornin’ school,” said Douglas earnestly, “cause of--cause of exams an’ things. An’ school-masters’d all starve if we didn’t have any school.”

“Do ’em good,” said Ginger bitterly and added, darkly, “I’d jolly well make some laws about school-masters if I was a member of Parliament.”

“What I think’d be a good idea,” said William, “would be jus’ to have school on wet mornin’s. Not if it’s fine ’cause of gettin’ a little fresh air jus’ to keep us healthy.”

This was felt by them all to be an excellent idea.

“The rotten thing about it is,” went on William, “that by the time we’re in Parliament makin’ the laws we’ll be makin’ it for other people an’ too late to do us any good.”

“An’ it seems hardly worth botherin’ to get into Parliament jus’ to do things for other people,” said Ginger the egoist.

They were very near the school now and instinctively had slowed down to a stop. The sun was shining more brightly than ever. The whole countryside looked more inviting than ever. There was a short silence. They gazed from the school building (grim and dark and uninviting) to the sunny hills and woods and fields that surrounded it. At last William spoke.

“Seems ridic’lous to go in,” he said slowly.

And Ginger said still with his air of unctuous virtue, “Seems sort of wrong to go when we reely don’t believe that we oughter go. They’re always tellin’ us not to do things our conscience tells us not to do. Well, my conscience tells me not to go to school this afternoon. My conscience tells me that it’s my juty to go out into the fresh air gettin’ healthy. My conscience----”

Douglas interrupted gloomily: “’S’ all very well talkin’ like that. You know what’ll happen to us to-morrow morning.”

The soaring spirits of the Outlaws dropped abruptly at this reminder. The general feeling was that it was rather tactless of Douglas to have introduced the subject. It was difficult after that to restore the attitude of reckless daring which had existed a few minutes before. It was William of course who restored it, swinging well to the other extreme in order to repair the balance.

“Well, we won’t go to-morrow mornin’ either,” he said. “I’m jolly well sick of wastin’ my time in a stuffy old school when I might be outside gettin’ fresh air. Let’s be Outlaws. Let’s be real Outlaws. Let’s go right away somewhere to a wood where no one’ll find us an’ live on blackberries an’ roots an’ things an’ if they come out to fetch us we’ll climb trees an’ hide or run away or shoot at ’em with bows and arrows. Let’s go’n’ live all the rest of our lives as Outlaws.”

And so infectious was William’s spirit, so hypnotic was William’s glorious optimism that the Outlaws cheered jubilantly and said, “Yes, let’s.... _Hurrah!_”

“And never go to school no more,” said Douglas rapturously.

“No, never go to school no more,” chanted the Outlaws.

They decided not to go home for provisions because their unexpected presence there would be sure to raise comment and question.

And as William said, “We don’t want any food but blackberries an’ mushrooms an’ roots an’ things. People used to live on roots an’ I bet we’ll soon find some roots to live on. It’ll be quite easy to find what sort to eat and what sort not to eat. An’ we’ll kill rabbits an’ things an’ make fires an’ cook them. That’s what real Outlaws did, an’ we’re real Outlaws now. An’ we don’t want any clothes but what we’ve got. When they fall to pieces we’ll make some more out of the skins of rabbits we’ve killed to eat. That’s what real Outlaws did, I bet.”

“Where’ll we go to?” said Douglas. William considered.

“Well,” he said, “we must be in a wood. Outlaws are always in woods, ’cause of hiding an’ eating the roots and things. And we oughter be on a hill ’cause of seeing people comin’ when they come tryin’ to catch us----”

“Ringers’ Hill, then,” said Ginger blithely.

Ringers’ Hill was both high and wooded.