# Just William/Chapter 12

How William and Jumble find each other.
CHAPTER XII “JUMBLE”
William’s father carefully placed the bow and arrow at the back of the library cupboard, then closed the cupboard door and locked it in grim silence. William’s eyes, large, reproachful, and gloomy, followed every movement.
“Three windows and Mrs. Clive’s cat all in one morning,” began Mr. Brown sternly.
“I didn’t mean to hit that cat,” said William earnestly. “I didn’t—honest. I wouldn’t go round teasin’ cats. They get so mad at you, cats do. It jus’ got in the way. I couldn’t stop shootin’ in time. An’ I didn’t mean to break those windows. I wasn’t tryin’ to hit them. I’ve not hit anything I was trying to hit yet,” wistfully. “I’ve not got into it. It’s jus’ a knack. It jus’ wants practice.”
Mr. Brown pocketed the key.
“It’s a knack you aren’t likely to acquire by practice on this instrument,” he said drily.
William wandered out into the garden and looked sadly up at the garden wall. But The Little Girl Next Door was away and could offer no sympathy, even if he climbed up to his precarious seat on the top. Fate was against him in every way. With a deep sigh he went out of the garden gate and strolled down the road disconsolately, hands in pockets.
Life stretched empty and uninviting before him without his bow and arrow. And Ginger would have his bow and arrow, Henry would have his bow and arrow, Douglas would have his bow and arrow. He, William, alone would be a thing apart, a social outcast, a boy without a bow and arrow; for bows and arrows were the fashion. If only one of the others would break a window or hit a silly old cat that hadn’t the sense to keep out of the way.
He came to a stile leading into a field and took his seat upon it dejectedly, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Life was simply not worth living.
“A rotten old cat!” he said aloud, “a rotten old cat!—and didn’t even hurt it. It—it made a fuss—jus’ out of spite, screamin’ and carryin’ on! And windows!—as if glass wasn’t cheap enough—and easy to put in. I could—I could mend ’em myself—if I’d got the stuff to do it. I——” He stopped. Something was coming down the road. It came jauntily with a light, dancing step, fox-terrier ears cocked, retriever nose raised, collie tail wagging, slightly dachshund body a-quiver with the joy of life.
It stopped in front of William with a glad bark of welcome, then stood eager, alert, friendly, a mongrel unashamed.
“Rats! Fetch ’em out!” said William idly.
It gave a little spring and waited, front paws apart and crouching, a waggish eye upraised to William. William broke off a stick from the hedge and threw it. His visitor darted after it with a shrill bark, took it up, worried it, threw it into the air, caught it, growled at it, finally brought it back to William and waited, panting, eager, unmistakably grinning, begging for more.
William’s drooping spirits revived. He descended from his perch and examined its collar. It bore the one word “Jumble.”
“Hey! Jumble!” he called, setting off down the road.
Jumble jumped up around him, dashed off, dashed back, worried his boots, jumped up at him again in wild, eager friendship, dashed off again, begged for another stick, caught it, rolled over with it, growled at it, then chewed it up and laid the remains at William’s feet.
“Good ole chap!” said William encouragingly. “Good ole Jumble! Come on, then.”
Jumble came on. William walked through the village with a self-conscious air of proud yet careless ownership, while Jumble gambolled round his heels.
Every now and then he would turn his head and whistle imperiously, to recall his straying protégé from the investigation of ditches and roadside. It was a whistle, commanding, controlling, yet withal careless, that William had sometimes practised privately in readiness for the blissful day when Fate should present him with a real live dog of his own. So far Fate, in the persons of his father and mother, had been proof against all his pleading.
William passed a blissful morning. Jumble swam in the pond, he fetched sticks out of it, he shook himself violently all over William, he ran after a hen, he was chased by a cat, he barked at a herd of cows, he pulled down a curtain that was hanging out in a cottage garden to dry—he was mischievous, affectionate, humorous, utterly irresistible—and he completely adopted William. William would turn a corner with a careless swagger and then watch breathlessly to see if the rollicking, frisky little figure would follow, and always it came tearing eagerly after him.
William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a newspaper. Mr. Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.
“William,” said Mrs. Brown, “I do wish you’d be in time, and I do wish you’d brush your hair before you come to table.”
William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.
“No, Ethel dear, I didn’t know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear, do sit still. Have they moved in yet?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “they’ve taken it furnished for two months, I think. Oh, my goodness, just look at William’s hands!”
William put his hands under the table and glared at her.
“Go and wash your hands, dear,” said Mrs. Brown patiently.
For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William’s mother. It had taught her patience.
William rose reluctantly.
“They’re not dirty,” he said in a tone of righteous indignation. “Well, anyway, they’ve been dirtier other times and you’ve said nothin’. I can’t be always washin’ them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an’ if you keep on washin’ it only makes them worse an’——”
Ethel groaned and William’s father lowered his paper. William withdrew quickly but with an air of dignity.
“And just look at his boots!” said Ethel as he went. “Simply caked; and his stockings are soaking wet—you can see from here. He’s been right in the pond by the look of him and——”
William heard no more. There were moments when he actively disliked Ethel.
He returned a few minutes later, shining with cleanliness, his hair brushed back fiercely off his face.
“His nails,” murmured Ethel as he sat down.
“Well,” said Mrs. Brown, “go on telling us about the new people. William, do hold your knife properly, dear. Yes, Ethel?”
William finished his meal in silence, then brought forth his momentous announcement.
“I’ve gotter dog,” he said with an air of importance.
“What sort of a dog?” and “Who gave it to you?” said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.
“No one gave it me,” he said. “I jus’ got it. It began following me this morning an’ I couldn’t get rid of it. It wouldn’t go, anyway. It followed me all round the village an’ it came home with me. I couldn’t get rid of it, anyhow.”
“Where is it now?” said Mrs. Brown anxiously.
“In the back garden.”
Mr. Brown folded up his paper.
“Digging up my flower-beds, I suppose,” he said with despairing resignation.
“He’s tied up all right,” William reassured him. “I tied him to the tree in the middle of the rose-bed.”
“The rose-bed!” groaned his father. “Good Lord!”
“Has he had anything to eat?” demanded Robert sternly.
“Yes,” said William, avoiding his mother’s eye. “I found a few bits of old things for him in the larder.”
William’s father took out his watch and rose from the table.
“Well, you’d better take it to the Police Station this afternoon,” he said shortly.
“The Police Station!” repeated William hoarsely. “It’s not a lost dog. It—it jus’ doesn’t belong to anyone, at least it didn’t. Poor thing,” feelingly. “It—it doesn’t want much to make it happy. It can sleep in my room an’ jus’ eat scraps.”
Mr. Brown went out without answering.
“You’ll have to take it, you know, William,” said Mrs. Brown, “so be quick. You know where the Police Station is, don’t you? Shall I come with you?”
“No, thank you,” said William hastily.
A few minutes later he was walking down to the Police Station followed by the still eager Jumble, who trotted along, unconscious of his doom.
Upon William’s face was a set, stern expression which cleared slightly as he neared the Police Station. He stood at the gate and looked at Jumble. Jumble placed his front paws ready for a game and wagged his tail.
“Well,” said William, “here you are. Here’s the Police Station.”
Jumble gave a shrill bark. “Hurry up with that stick or that race, whichever you like,” he seemed to say.
“Well, go in,” said William, nodding his head in the direction of the door.
Jumble began to worry a big stone in the road. He rolled it along with his paws, then ran after it with fierce growls.
“Well, it’s the Police Station,” said William. “Go in if you want.”
With that he turned on his heel and walked home, without one backward glance. But he walked slowly, with many encouraging “Hey! Jumbles” and many short commanding whistles. And Jumble trotted happily at his heels. There was no one in the garden, there was no one in the hall, there was no one on the stairs. Fate was for once on William’s side.
William appeared at the tea-table well washed and brushed, wearing that air of ostentatious virtue that those who knew him best connected with his most daring coups.
“Did you take that dog to the Police Station, William?” said William’s father.
William coughed.
“Yes, father,” he said meekly with his eyes upon his plate.
“What did they say about it?”
“Nothing, father.”
“I suppose I’d better spend the evening replanting those rose-trees,” went on his father bitterly.
“And William gave him a whole steak and kidney pie,” murmured Mrs. Brown. “Cook will have to make another for to-morrow.”
William coughed again politely, but did not raise his eyes from his plate.
“What is that noise?” said Ethel. “Listen!”
They sat, listening intently. There was a dull grating sound as of the scratching of wood.
“It’s upstairs,” said Robert with the air of a Sherlock Holmes.
Then came a shrill, impatient bark.
“It’s a dog!” said the four of them simultaneously. “It’s William’s dog.”
They all turned horrified eyes upon William, who coloured slightly but continued to eat a piece of cake with an unconvincing air of abstraction.
“I thought you said you’d taken that dog to the Police Station, William,” said Mr. Brown sternly.
“I did,” said William with decision. “I did take it to the Police Station an’ I came home. I s’pose it must of got out an’ come home an’ gone up into my bedroom.”
“Where did you leave it? In the Police Station?”
“No—at it—jus’ at the gate.”
Mr. Brown rose with an air of weariness.
“Robert,” he said, “will you please see that that animal goes to the Police Station this evening?”
“Yes, father,” said Robert, with a vindictive glare at William.
William followed him upstairs.
“Beastly nuisance!” muttered Robert.
Jumble, who was chewing William’s door, greeted them ecstatically.
“Look!” said William bitterly. “Look at how it knows one! Nice thing to send a dog that knows one like that to the Police Station! Mean sort of trick!”
Robert surveyed it coldly.
“Rotten little mongrel!” he said from the heights of superior knowledge.
“Mongrel!” said William indignantly. “There jus’ isn’t no mongrel about him. Look at him! An’ he can learn tricks easy as easy. Look at him sit up and beg. I only taught him this afternoon.”
He took a biscuit out of his pocket and held it up. Jumble rose unsteadily on to his hind legs and tumbled over backwards. He wagged his tail and grinned, intensely amused. Robert’s expression of superiority relaxed.
“Do it again,” he said. “Not so far back. Here! Give it me. Come on, come on, old chap! That’s it! Now stay there! Stay there! Good dog! Got any more? Let’s try him again.”
During the next twenty minutes they taught him to sit up and almost taught him “Trust” and “Paid for.” There was certainly a charm about Jumble. Even Robert felt it. Then Ethel’s voice came up the stairs.
“Robert! Sydney Bellew’s come for you.”
“Blow the wretched dog!” said the fickle Robert rising, red and dishevelled from stooping over Jumble. “We were going to walk to Fairfields and the beastly Police Station’s right out of our way.”
“I’ll take it, Robert,” said William kindly. “I will really.”
Robert eyed him suspiciously.
“Yes, you took it this afternoon, didn’t you?”
“I will, honest, to-night, Robert. Well, I couldn’t, could I?—after all this.”
“I don’t know,” said Robert darkly. “No one ever knows what you are going to do!”
Sydney’s voice came up.
“Hurry up, old chap! We shall never have time to do it before dark, if you aren’t quick.”
“I’ll take him, honest, Robert.”
Robert hesitated and was lost.
“Well,” he said, “you just mind you do, that’s all, or I’ll jolly well hear about it. I’ll see you do too.”
So William started off once more towards the Police Station with Jumble, still blissfully happy, at his heels. William walked slowly, eyes fixed on the ground, brows knit in deep thought. It was very rarely that William admitted himself beaten.
“Hello, William!”
William looked up.
Ginger stood before him holding his bow and arrows ostentatiously.
“You’ve had your bow and arrow took off you!” he jeered.
William fixed his eye moodily upon him for a minute, then very gradually his eye brightened and his face cleared. William had an idea.
“If I give you a dog half time,” he said slowly, “will you give me your bow and arrows half time?”
“Where’s your dog?” said Ginger suspiciously.
William did not turn his head.
“There’s one behind me, isn’t there,” he said anxiously. “Hey, Jumble!”
“Oh, yes, he’s just come out of the ditch.”
“Well,” continued William, “I’m taking him to the Police Station and I’m just goin’ on an’ he’s following me and if you take him off me I won’t see you ’cause I won’t turn round and jus’ take hold of his collar an’ he’s called Jumble an’ take him up to the old barn and we’ll keep him there an’ join at him and feed him days and days about and you let me practice on your bow and arrow. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Ginger considered thoughtfully.
“All right,” he said laconically.
William walked on to the Police Station without turning round.
“Well?” whispered Robert sternly that evening.
“I took him, Robert—least—I started off with him, but when I’d got there he’d gone. I looked round and he’d jus’ gone. I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I came home.”
“Well, if he comes to this house again,” said Robert, “I’ll wring his neck, so just you look out.” Two days later William sat in the barn on an upturned box, chin in hands, gazing down at Jumble. A paper bag containing Jumble’s ration for the day lay beside him. It was his day of ownership. The collecting of Jumble’s “scraps” was a matter of infinite care and trouble. They consisted in—a piece of bread that William had managed to slip into his pocket during breakfast, a piece of meat he had managed to slip into his pocket during dinner, a jam puff stolen from the larder and a bone removed from the dustbin. Ginger roamed the fields with his bow and arrow while William revelled in the ownership of Jumble. To-morrow William would roam the fields with bow and arrow and Ginger would assume ownership of Jumble.
William had spent the morning teaching Jumble several complicated tricks, and adoring him more and more completely each moment. He grudged him bitterly to Ginger, but—the charm of the bow and arrow was strong. He wished to terminate the partnership, to resign Ginger’s bow and arrow and take the irresistible Jumble wholly to himself. He thought of the bow and arrow in the library cupboard; he thought, planned, plotted, but could find no way out. He did not see a man come to the door of the barn and stand there leaning against the door-post watching him. He was a tall man with a thin, lean face and a loose-fitting tweed suit. As his eyes lit upon William and Jumble they narrowed suddenly and his mobile lips curved into a slight, unconscious smile. Jumble saw him first and went towards him wagging his tail. William looked up and scowled ungraciously. The stranger raised his hat.
“Good afternoon,” he said politely, “Do you remember what you were thinking about just then?”
William looked at him with a certain interest, speculating upon his probable insanity. He imagined lunatics were amusing people.
“Yes.”
“Well, if you’ll think of it again and look just like that, I’ll give you anything you like. It’s a rash promise, but I will.”
William promptly complied. He quite forgot the presence of the strange man, who took a little block out of his pocket and began to sketch William’s inscrutable, brooding face.
“Daddy!”
The man sighed and put away his block.
“You’ll do it again for me one day, won’t you, and I’ll keep my promise. Hello!”
A little girl appeared now at the barn door, dainty, dark-eyed and exquisitely dressed. She threw a lightning flash at the occupants of the barn.
“Daddy!” she screamed. “It’s Jumble! It is Jumble! Oh, you horrid dog-stealing boy!”
Jumble ran to her with shrill barks of welcome, then ran back to William to reassure him of his undying loyalty.
“It is Jumble,” said the man. “He’s called Jumble,” he explained to William, “because he is a jumble. He’s all sorts of a dog, you know. This is Ninette, my daughter, and my name is Jarrow, and we’ve taken Lavender Cottage for two months. We’re roving vagabonds. We never stay anywhere longer than two months. So now you know all about us. Jumble seems to have adopted you. Ninette, my dear, you are completely ousted from Jumble’s heart. This gentleman reigns supreme.”
“I didn’t steal him,” said William indignantly. “He just came. He began following me. I didn’t want him to—not jus’ at first anyway, not much anyway. I suppose,” a dreadful fear came to his heart, “I suppose you want him back?”
“You can keep him for a bit if you want him, can’t he Daddy? Daddy’s going to buy me a Pom—a dear little white Pom. When we lost Jumble, I thought I’d rather have a Pom. Jumble’s so rough and he’s not really a good dog. I mean he’s no pedigree.”
“Then can I keep him jus’ for a bit?” said William, his voice husky with eagerness.
“Oh, yes. I’d much rather have a quieter sort of dog. Would you like to come and see our cottage? It’s just over here.”
William, slightly bewildered but greatly relieved, set off with her. Mr. Jarrow followed slowly behind. It appeared that Miss Ninette Jarrow was rather a wonderful person. She was eleven years old. She had visited every capital in Europe, seen the best art and heard the best music in each. She had been to every play then on in London. She knew all the newest dances.
“Do you like Paris?” she asked William as they went towards Lavender Cottage.
“Never been there,” said William stolidly, glancing round surreptitiously to see that Jumble was following.
She shook her dark curly head from side to side—a little trick she had.
“You funny boy. Mais vous parlez Français, n’est-ce pas?”
William disdained to answer. He whistled to Jumble, who was chasing an imaginary rabbit in a ditch.
“Can you jazz?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said guardedly. “I’ve not tried. I expect I could.”
She took a few flying graceful steps with slim black silk-encased legs.
“That’s it. I’ll teach you at home. We’ll dance it to a gramophone.”
William walked on in silence.
She stopped suddenly under a tree and held up her little vivacious, piquant face to him.
“You can kiss me if you like,” she said.
William looked at her dispassionately.
“I don’t want to, thanks,” he said politely.
“Oh, you are a funny boy!” she said with a ripple of laughter, “and you look so rough and untidy. You’re rather like Jumble. Do you like Jumble?”
“Yes,” said William. His voice had a sudden quaver in it. His ownership of Jumble was a thing of the past.
“You can have him for always and always,” she said suddenly. “Now kiss me!”
He kissed her cheek awkwardly with the air of one determined to do his duty, but with a great, glad relief at his heart.
“I’d love to see you dance,” she laughed. “You would look funny.”
She took a few more fairy steps.
“You’ve seen Pavlova, haven’t you?”
“Dunno.”
“You must know.”
“I mustn’t,” said William irritably. “I might have seen him and not known it was him, mightn’t I?”
She raced back to her father with another ripple of laughter.
“He’s such a funny boy, Daddy, and he can’t jazz and he’s never seen Pavlova, and he can’t talk French and I’ve given him Jumble and he didn’t want to kiss me!”
Mr. Jarrow fixed William with a drily quizzical smile.
“Beware, young man,” he said. “She’ll try to educate you. I know her. I warn you.”
As they got to the door of Lavender Cottage he turned to William.
“Now just sit and think for a minute. I’ll keep my promise.”
“I do like you,” said Ninette graciously as he took his departure. “You must come again. I’ll teach you heaps of things. I think I’d like to marry you when we grow up. You’re so—restful.”
William came home the next afternoon to find Mr. Jarrow in the armchair in the library talking to his father.
“I was just dry for a subject,” he was saying; “at my wits’ end, and when I saw them there, I had a Heaven-sent inspiration. Ah! here he is. Ninette wants you to come to tea to-morrow, William. Ninette’s given him Jumble. Do you mind?” turning to Mr. Brown.
Mr. Brown swallowed hard.
“I’m trying not to,” he said. “He kept us all awake last night, but I suppose we’ll get used to it.”
“And I made him a rash promise,” went on Mr. Jarrow, “and I’m jolly well going to keep it if it’s humanly possible. William, what would you like best in all the world?”
William fixed his eyes unflinchingly upon his father.
“I’d like my bow and arrows back out of that cupboard,” he said firmly.
Mr. Jarrow looked at William’s father beseechingly.
“Don’t let me down,” he implored. “I’ll pay for all the damage.”
Slowly and with a deep sigh Mr. Brown drew a bunch of keys from his pocket.
“It means that we all go once more in hourly peril of our lives,” he said resignedly.
After tea William set off again down the road. The setting sun had turned the sky to gold. There was a soft haze over all the countryside. The clear bird songs filled all the air, and the hedgerows were bursting into summer. And through it all marched William, with a slight swagger, his bow under one arm, his arrows under the other, while at his heels trotted Jumble, eager, playful, adoring—a mongrel unashamed—all sorts of a dog. And at William’s heart was a proud, radiant happiness.
There was a picture in that year’s Academy that attracted a good deal of attention. It was of a boy sitting on an upturned box in a barn, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He was gazing down at a mongrel dog and in his freckled face was the solemnity and unconscious, eager wistfulness that is the mark of youth. His untidy, unbrushed hair stood up round his face. The mongrel was looking up, quivering, expectant, trusting, adoring, some reflection of the boy’s eager wistfulness showing in the eyes and cocked ears. It was called “Friendship.”
Mrs. Brown went up to see it. She said it wasn’t really a very good likeness of William and she wished they’d made him look a little tidier.
THE END