The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12¼) had said in a moment of inspiration:

“Let’s think of—sumthin’ else to do—sumthin’ quite fresh from what we’ve ever done before.”

And the Outlaws were thinking.

They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the country-side with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had palled.

In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from 9 to 4 their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.

William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.

“Let’s shoot things with bows an’ arrows same as real outlaws used to,” he said.

“What things?” and

“What bows an’ arrows?” said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.

“Oh, anything—birds an’ cats an’ hens an’ things—an’ buy bows an’ arrows. You can buy them in shops.”

“We can make them,” said Douglas, hopefully.

“Not like you can get them in shops. They’d shoot crooked or sumthin’ if we made them. They’ve got to be jus’ so to shoot straight. I saw some in Brook’s window, too, jus’ right—jus’ same as real outlaws had.”

“How much?” said the outlaws breathlessly.

“Five shillings—targets for learnin’ on before we begin shootin’ real things an’ all.”

“Five shillings!” breathed Douglas. He might as well have said five pounds. “We’ve not got five shillings. Henry’s not having any money since he broke their drawing-room window an’ Ginger only has 3d. a week an’ has to give collection an’ we’ve not paid for the guinea pig yet, the one that got into Ginger’s sister’s hat an’ she was so mad at, an’——”

“Oh, never mind all that,” said William, scornfully. “We’ll jus’ get five shillings.”

“How?”

“Well,” uncertainly, “grown-ups can always get money when they want it.”

“How?” again.

William disliked being tied down to details.

“Oh—bazaars an’ things,” impatiently.

“Bazaars!” exploded Henry. “Who’d come to a bazaar if we had one? Who would? Jus’ tell me that if you’re so clever! Who’d come to it? Besides, you’ve got to sell things at a bazaar, haven’t you? What’d we sell? We’ve got nothin’ to sell, have we? What’s the good of havin’ a bazaar with nothin’ to sell and no one to buy it? Jus’ tell me that!”

Henry always enjoyed scoring off William.

“Well—shows an’ things,” said William desperately.

There was a moment’s silence, then Ginger repeated thoughtfully. “Shows!” and Douglas, whose eldest brother was home from college for his vacation, murmured self-consciously, “By Jove!”

“We could do a show,” said Ginger. “Get animals an’ things an’ charge money for lookin’ at them.”

“Who’d pay it?” said Henry, the doubter.

“Anyone would. You’d pay to see animals, wouldn’t you?—real animals. People do at the Zoo, don’t they? Well, we’ll get some animals. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?”

A neighbouring church clock struck four and the meeting was adjourned.

“Well, we’ll have a show an’ get money and buy bows an’ arrows an’ shoot things,” summed up William, “an we’ll arrange the show next week.”

William returned home slowly and thoughtfully. He sat on his bed, his hands in his pockets, his brow drawn into a frown, his thoughts wandering in a dreamland of wonderful “shows” and rare exotic beasts.

Suddenly from the next room came a thin sound that gathered volume till it seemed to fill the house like the roaring of a lion, then died gradually away and was followed by silence. But only for a second. It began again—a small whisper that grew louder and louder, became a raucous bellow, then faded slowly away to rise again after a moment’s silence. In the next room William’s mother’s Aunt Emily was taking her afternoon nap. Aunt Emily had come down a month ago for a week’s visit and had not yet referred to the date of her departure. William’s father was growing anxious. She was a stout, healthy lady, who spent all her time recovering from a slight illness she had had two years ago. Her life held two occupations, and only two. These were eating and sleeping. For William she possessed a subtle but irresistible fascination. Her stature, her appetite, her gloom, added to the fact that she utterly ignored him, attracted him strongly.

The tea bell rang and the sound of the snoring ceased abruptly. This entertainment over, William descended to the dining-room, where his father was addressing his mother with some heat.

“Is she going to stay here for ever, or only for a few years? I’d like to know, because——”

Perceiving William, he stopped abruptly, and William’s mother murmured:

“It’s so nice to have her, dear.”

Then Aunt Emily entered.

“Have you slept well, Aunt?”

“Slept!” repeated Aunt Emily majestically. “I hardly expect to sleep in my state of health. A little rest is all I can expect.”

“Sorry you’re no better,” said William’s father sardonically.

“Better?” she repeated again indignantly. “It will be a long time before I’m better.”

She lowered her large, healthy frame into a chair, carefully selected a substantial piece of bread and butter and attacked it with vigour.

“I’m going to the post after tea,” said William’s mother. “Would you care to come with me?”

Aunt Emily took a large helping of jam.

“You hardly expect me to go out in the evening in my state of health, surely? It’s years since I went out after tea. And I was at the post office this morning. There were a lot of people there, but they served me first. I suppose they saw I looked ill.”

William’s father choked suddenly and apologised, but not humbly.

“Though I must say,” went on Aunt Emily, “this place does suit me. I think after a few months here I should be a little stronger. Pass the jam, William.”

The glance that William’s father fixed upon her would have made a stronger woman quail, but Aunt Emily was scraping out the last remnants of jam and did not notice.

“I’m a bit over-tired to-day, I think,” she went on. “I’m so apt to forget how weak I am and then I overdo it. I’m ready for the cake, William. I just sat out in the sun yesterday afternoon and sat a bit too long and over-tired myself. I ought to write letters after tea, but I don’t think I have the strength. Another piece of cake, William. I’ll go upstairs to rest instead, I think. I hope you’ll keep the house quiet. It’s so rarely that I can get a bit of sleep.”

William’s father left the room abruptly. William sat on and watched, with fascinated eyes, the cake disappear, and finally followed the large, portly figure upstairs and sat down in his room to plan the “show” and incidentally listen, with a certain thrilled awe, for the sounds from next door.

The place and time of the “show” presented no little difficulty. To hold it in the old barn would give away to the world the cherished secret of their meeting place. It was William who suggested his bedroom, to be entered, not by way of the front door and staircase, but by the less public way of the garden wall and scullery roof. Ever an optimist, he affirmed that no one would see or hear. The choice of a time was limited to Wednesday afternoon, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday. Sunday at first was ruled out as impossible. But there were difficulties about Wednesday afternoon and Saturday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon Ginger and Douglas were unwilling and ungraceful pupils at a dancing class. On Saturday afternoon William’s father gardened and would command a view of the garden wall and scullery roof. On these afternoons also Cook and Emma, both of a suspicious turn of mind, would be at large. On Sunday Cook and Emma went out, William’s mother paid a regular weekly visit to an old friend and William’s father spent the afternoon on the sofa, dead to the world.

Moreover, as he pointed out to the Outlaws, the members of the Sunday School could be waylaid and induced to attend the show and they would probably be provided with money for collection. The more William thought over it, the more attractive became the idea of a Sunday afternoon in spite of superficial difficulties; therefore Sunday afternoon was finally chosen.

The day was fortunately a fine one, and William and the other Outlaws were at work early. William had asked his mother, with an expression of meekness and virtue that ought to have warned her of danger, if he might have “jus’ a few friends” in his room for the afternoon. His mother, glad that her husband should be spared his son’s restless company, gave willing permission.

By half-past two the exhibits were ready. In a cage by the window sat a white rat painted in faint alternate stripes of blue and pink. This was Douglas’ contribution, handpainted by himself in water colours. It wore a bewildered expression and occasionally licked its stripes and then obviously wished it hadn’t. Its cage bore a notice printed on cardboard:

RAT FROM CHINA
RATS ARE ALL LIKE
THIS IN CHINA

Next came a cat belonging to William’s sister, Smuts by name, now imprisoned beneath a basket-chair. At the best of times Smuts was short-tempered, and all its life had cherished a bitter hatred of William. Now, enclosed by its enemy in a prison two feet square, its fury knew no bounds. It tore at the basket work, it flew wildly round and round, scratching, spitting, swearing. Its chair bore the simple and appropriate notice:

WILD CAT

William watched it with honest pride and prayed fervently that its indignation would not abate during the afternoon.

Next came a giant composed of Douglas upon Ginger’s back, draped in two sheets tied tightly round Douglas’s neck. This was labelled:

GENWIN GIANT

Ginger was already growing restive. His muffled voice was heard from the folds of the sheets informing the other Outlaws that it was a bit thick and he hadn’t known it would be like this or he wouldn’t have done it, and anyway he was going to change with Douglas half time or he’d chuck up the whole thing.

The next exhibit was a black fox fur of William’s mother’s, to which was fortunately attached a head and several feet, and which he had surreptitiously removed from her wardrobe. This had been tied up, stuffed with waste paper and wired by William till it was, in his eyes, remarkably lifelike. As the legs, even with the assistance of wire, refused to support the body and the head would only droop sadly to the ground, it was perforce exhibited in a recumbent attitude. It bore marks of sticky fingers, and of several side slips of the scissors when William was cutting the wire, but on the whole he was justly proud of it. It bore the striking but untruthful legend:—

BEAR SHOT
BY OUTLAWS
IN RUSHER

Next came:

BLUE DOG

This was Henry’s fox terrier, generally known as Chips. For Chips the world was very black. Henry’s master mind had scorned his paint box and his water colours. Henry had “borrowed” a blue bag and dabbed it liberally over Chips. Chips had, after the first wild frenzied struggle, offered no resistance. He now sat, a picture of black despair, turning every now and then a melancholy eye upon the still enraged Smuts. But for him cats and joy and life and fighting were no more. He was abject, shamed—a blue dog.

William himself, as showman, was an imposing figure. He was robed in a red dressing-gown of his father’s that trailed on the ground behind him and over whose cords in front he stumbled ungracefully as he walked. He had cut a few strands from the fringe of a rug and glued them to his lips to represent moustaches. They fell in two straight lines over his mouth. On his head was a tinsel crown, once worn by his sister as Fairy Queen.

The show had been widely advertised and all the neighbouring children had been individually canvassed, but under strict orders of secrecy. The threats of what the Outlaws would do if their secret were disclosed had kept many a child awake at night.

William surveyed the room proudly.

“Not a bad show for a penny, I should say. I guess there aren’t many like it, anyway. Do shut up talkin’, Ginger. It’ll spoil it all, if folks hear the giant talking out of his stomach. It’s Douglas that’s got to do the giant’s talking. Anyone could see that. I say, they’re comin’! Look! They’re comin’! Along the wall!”

There was a thin line of children climbing along the wall in single file on all fours. They ascended the scullery roof and approached the window. These were the first arrivals who had called on their way to Sunday School.

Henry took their pennies and William cleared his throat and began:—

“White rat from China, ladies an’ gentlemen, pink an’ blue striped. All rats is pink an’ blue striped inChina. This is the only genwin China rat in England—brought over from China special las’ week jus’ for the show. It lives on China bread an’ butter brought over special, too.”

“Wash it!” jeered an unbeliever. “Jus’ wash it an’ let’s see it then.”

“Wash it?” repeated the showman indignantly. “It’s gotter be washed. It’s washed every morning an’ night same as you or me. China rats have gotter be washed or they’d die right off. Washin’ ’em don’t make no difference to their stripes. Anyone knows that that knows anything about China rats, I guess.”

He laughed scornfully and turned to Smuts. Smuts had grown used to the basket chair and was settling down for a nap. William crouched down on all fours, ran his fingers along the basket-work, and, putting his face close to it, gave vent to a malicious howl. Smuts sprang at him, scratching and spitting.

“Wild cat,” said William triumphantly. “Look at it! Kill anyone if it got out! Spring at their throats, it would, an’ scratch their eyes out with its paws an’ bite their necks till its teeth met. If I jus’ moved away that chair it would spring out at you.” They moved hastily away from the chair, “and I bet some of you would be dead pretty quick. It could have anyone’s head right off with bitin’ and scratchin’. Right off—separate from their bodies!”

There was an awe-stricken silence.

Then:

“Garn! It’s Smuts. It’s your sister’s cat!”

William laughed as though vastly amused by this idea.

“Smuts!” he said, giving a surreptitious kick to the chair that infuriated its occupant still more. “I guess there wouldn’t be many of us left in this house if Smuts was like this.”

They passed on to the giant.

“A giant,” said William, re-arranging the tinsel crown, which was slightly too big for him. “Real giant. Look at it. As big as two of you put together. How d’you think he gets in at doors and things? Has to have everything made special. Look at him walk. Walk, Ginger.”

Ginger took two steps forward. Douglas clutched his shoulders and murmured anxiously, “By Jove!”

“Go on,” urged William scornfully, “That’s not walkin’.”

The goaded Ginger’s voice came from the giant’s middle regions!

“If you go on talkin’ at me, I’ll drop him. I’m just about sick of it.”

“All right,” said William hastily.

“Anyway it’s a giant,” he went on to his audience. “A jolly fine giant.”

“It’s got Douglas’s face,” said one of his audience.

William was for a moment at a loss.

“Well,” he said at last, “giant’s got to have some sort of a face, hasn’t it? Can’t not have a face, can it?”

The Russian Bear, which had often been seen adorning the shoulders of William’s mother and was promptly recognised, was greeted with ribald jeers, but there was no doubt as to the success of the Blue Dog. Chips advanced deprecatingly, blue head drooping, and blue tail between blue legs, makingabject apologies for his horrible condition. But Henry had done his work well. They stood around in rapt admiration.

“Blue dog,” said the showman, walking forward proudly and stumbling violently over the cords of the dressing gown. “Blue dog,” he repeated, recovering his balance and removing the tinsel crown from his nose to his brow. “You never saw a blue dog before, did you? No, and you aren’t likely to see one again, neither. It was made blue special for this show. It’s the only blue dog in the world. Folks’ll be comin’ from all over the world to see this blue dog—an’ thrown in in a penny show! If it was in the Zoo you’d have to pay a shilling to see it, I bet. It’s—it’s jus’ luck for you it’s here. I guess the folks at the Zoo wish they’d got it. Tain’t many shows have blue dogs. Brown an’ black an’ white—but not blue. Why, folks pay money jus’ to see shows of ornery dogs—so you’re jus’ lucky to see a blue dog an’ a dead bear from Russia an’ a giant, an’ a wild cat, an’ a China rat for jus’ one penny.”

After each speech William had to remove from his mouth the rug fringe which persisted in obeying the force of gravity rather than William’s idea of what a moustache should be.

“It’s jus’ paint. Henry’s gate’s being painted blue,” said one critic feebly, but on the whole the Outlaws had scored a distinct success in the blue dog.

Then, while they stood in silent admiration round the unhappy animal, came a sound from the next door, a gentle sound like the sighing of the wind through the trees. It rose and fell. It rose again and fell again. It increased in volume with each repetition, till at its height it sounded like a wild animal in pain.

“What’s that?” asked the audience breathlessly.

William was slightly uneasy. He was not sure whether this fresh development would add lustre or dishonour to his show.

“Yes,” he said darkly to gain time, “what is it? I guess you’d like to know what it is!”

“Garn! It’s jus’ snorin’.”

“Snorin’!” repeated William. “It’s not ornery snorin’, that isn’t. Jus’ listen, that’s all! You couldn’t snore like that, I bet. Huh!”

They listened spellbound to the gentle sound, growing louder and louder till at its loudest it brought rapt smiles to their faces, then ceasing abruptly, then silence. Then again the gentle sound that grew and grew.

William asked Henry in a stage whisper if they oughtn’t to charge extra for listening to it. The audience hastily explained that they weren’t listening, they “jus’ couldn’t help hearin’.”

A second batch of sightseers had arrived and were paying their entrance pennies, but the first batch refused to move. William, emboldened by success, opened the door and they crept out to the landing and listened with ears pressed to the magic door.

Henry now did the honours of showman. William stood, majestic in his glorious apparel, deep in thought. Then to his face came the faint smile that inspiration brings to her votaries. He ordered the audience back into the showroom and shut the door. Then he took off his shoes and softly and with bated breath opened Aunt Emily’s door and peeped within. It was rather a close afternoon, and she lay on her bed on the top of her eiderdown. She had slipped off her dress skirt so as not to crush it, and she lay in her immense stature in a blouse and striped petticoat, while from her open mouth issued the fascinating sounds. In sleep Aunt Emily was not beautiful.

William thoughtfully propped up a cushion in the doorway and stood considering the situation.

In a few minutes the showroom was filled with a silent, expectant crowd. In a corner near the door was a new notice:

PLACE FOR TAKING
OFF SHOES AND TAKING
OTH OF SILENCE

William, after administering the oath of silence to a select party in his most impressive manner led them shoeless and on tiptoe to the next room.

From Aunt Emily’s bed hung another notice:

FAT WILD WOMAN
TORKIN NATIF
LANGWIDGE

They stood in a hushed, delighted group around her bed. The sounds never ceased, never abated. William only allowed them two minutes in the room. They came out reluctantly, paid more money, joined the end of the queue and re-entered. More and more children came to see the show, but the show now consisted solely in Aunt Emily.

The China rat had licked off all its stripes; Smuts was fast asleep; Ginger was sitting down on the seat of a chair and Douglas on the back of it, and Ginger had insisted at last on air and sight and had put his head out where the two sheets joined; the Russian Bear had fallen on to the floor and no one had picked it up; Chips lay in a disconsolate heap, a victim of acute melancholia—and no one cared for any of these things. New-comers passed by them hurriedly and stood shoeless in the queue outside Aunt Emily’s room eagerly awaiting their turn. Those who came out simply went to the end again to wait another turn. Many returned home for more money, for Aunt Emily was 1d. extra and each visit after the first, ½d. The Sunday School bell pealed forth its summons, but no one left the show. The vicar was depressed that evening. The attendance at Sunday School had been the worst on record. And still Aunt Emily slept and snored with a rapt, silent crowd around her. But William could never rest content. He possessed ambition that would have put many of his elders to shame. He cleared the room and re-opened it after a few minutes, during which his clients waited in breathless suspense.

When they re-entered there was a fresh exhibit. William’s keen eye had been searching out each detail of the room. On the table by her bed now stood a glass containing teeth, that William had discovered on the washstand, and a switch of hair and a toothless comb, that William had discovered on the dressing-table. These all bore notices:

FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
TEETH

FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
HARE

FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
KOME

Were it not that the slightest noise meant instant expulsion from the show (some of their number had already suffered that bitter fate) there would have been no restraining the audience. As it was, they crept in, silent, expectant, thrilled, to watch and listen for the blissful two minutes. And Aunt Emily never failed them. Still she slept and snored. They borrowed money recklessly from each other. The poor sold their dearest treasures to the rich, and still they came again and again. And still Aunt Emily slept and snored. It would be interesting to know how long this would have gone on, had she not, on the top note of a peal that was a pure delight to her audience, awakened with a start and glanced around her. At first she thought that the cluster of small boys around her was a dream, especially as they turned and fled precipitately at once. Then she sat up and her eye fell upon the table by her bed, the notices, and finally upon the petrified horror-stricken showman. She sprang up and, seizing him by the shoulders, shook him till his teeth chattered, the tinsel crown fell down, encircling ears and nose, and one of his moustaches fell limply at his feet.

“You wicked boy!” she said as she shook him, “you wicked, wicked, wicked boy!”

He escaped from her grasp and fled to the showroom, where, in sheer self-defence, he moved a table and three chairs across the door. The room was empty except for Henry, the blue dog, and the still sleeping Smuts. All that was left of the giant was the crumpled sheets. Douglas had, with an awe-stricken “By Jove!” snatched up his rat as he fled. The last of their clients was seen scrambling along the top of the garden wall on all fours with all possible speed.

Mechanically William straightened his crown.

“She’s woke,” he said. “She’s mad wild.”

He listened apprehensively for angry footsteps descending the stairs and his father’s dread summons, but none came. Aunt Emily could be heard moving about in her room, but that was all. A wild hope came to him that, given a little time, she might forget the incident.

“Let’s count the money—” said Henry at last.

They counted.

“Four an’ six!” screamed William. “Four an’ six! Jolly good, I should say! An’ it would only have been about two shillings without Aunt Emily, an’ I thought of her, didn’t I? I guess you can all be jolly grateful to me.”

“All right,” said Henry unkindly. “I’m not envying you, am I? You’re welcome to it when she tells your father.”

And William’s proud spirits dropped.

Then came the opening of the fateful door and heavy steps descending the stairs.

William’s mother had returned from her weekly visit to her friend. She was placing her umbrella in the stand as Aunt Emily, hatted and coated and carrying a bag, descended. William’s father had just awakened from his peaceful Sunday afternoon slumber, and, hearing his wife, had come into the hall.

Aunt Emily fixed her eye upon him.

“Will you be good enough to procure a conveyance?” she said. “After the indignities to which I have been subjected in this house I refuse to remain in it a moment longer.”

Quivering with indignation she gave details of the indignities to which she had been subjected. William’s mother pleaded, apologised, coaxed. William’s father went quietly out to procure a conveyance. When he returned she was still talking in the hall.

“A crowd of vulgar little boys,” she was saying, “and horrible indecent placards all over the room.”

He carried her bag down to the cab.

“And me in my state of health,” she said as she followed him. From the cab she gave her parting shot.

“And if this horrible thing hadn’t happened, I might have stayed with you all the winter and perhaps part of the spring.”

William’s father wiped his brow with his handkerchief as the cab drove off.

“How dreadful!” said his wife, but she avoided meeting his eye. “It’s—it’s disgraceful of William,” she went on with sudden spirit. “You must speak to him.”

“I will,” said his father determinedly. “William!” he shouted sternly from the hall.

William’s heart sank.

“She’s told,” he murmured, his last hope gone.

“You’d better go and get it over,” advised Henry.

“William!” repeated the voice still more fiercely.

Henry moved nearer the window, prepared for instant flight if the voice’s owner should follow it up the stairs.

“Go on,” he urged. “He’ll only come up for you.”

William slowly removed the barricade and descended the stairs. He had remembered to take off the crown and dressing gown, but his one-sided moustache still hung limply over his mouth.

His father was standing in the hall.

“What’s that horrible thing on your face?” he began.

“Whiskers,” answered William laconically.

His father accepted the explanation.

“Is it true,” he went on, “that you actually took your friends into your aunt’s room without permission and hung vulgar placards around it?”

William glanced up into his father’s face and suddenly took hope. Mr. Brown was no actor.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It’s disgraceful,” said Mr. Brown, “disgraceful! That’s all.”

But it was not quite all. Something hard and round slipped into William’s hand. He ran lightly upstairs.

“Hello!” said Henry, surprised. “That’s not taken long. What——”

William opened his hand and showed something that shone upon his extended palm.

“Look!” he said. “Crumbs! Look!” It was a bright half-crown.