grumbling at
them. Something fresh to grumble at was almost in the nature of a godsend. Of course they’d have grumbled at their presents whatever they’d been, but anything so unusually and
satisfactorily easy to grumble at as these unsuitable presents was almost exhilarating.
William gathered from the almost homicidal expressions with which the young man and woman helpers were watching him that it would be as well to retire as hastily as possible. He handed his last
present, a child’s paintbox, to a deaf and blind old woman by the door, and departed almost precipitately. Then the storm broke out and a torrent of shrill indignation pursued his retreating
form.
He returned to the little classroom he had chosen as his dressing-room and stood contemplating his other costume and other sack. Yes, impersonally and impartially he could not help admitting
that the changing of the sacks had been a mistake, but it was done now and he must just carry on as best as he could.
It took some time to change into the Pied Piper costume and he retained his beard and wig in order the better to conceal his identity. Then he shouldered his other sack and set off to follow the
numerous placards whose hands crippled apparently by rheumatism or some other terrible complaint continued with dogged British determination to do their duty and point the way to the room where the
Mixed Infants were assembled.
William had become very thoughtful. He was realising the fact that in all probability his fulfilment of Mr Solomon’s rôles that afternoon would not be such as to melt Mr
Solomon’s heart towards him and make him admit him as trumpeter into his band. He doubted if even Ethel’s charm would be strong enough to counter-balance the Old Folks’ presents.
And he did so dearly want to enter Mr Solomon’s band as a trumpeter. He must try to think of some way.
He flung open the door of a room in which a few dozen Mixed Infants gambolled half-heartedly at the bidding of the conscientious ‘helpers’. A little cluster of mothers sat at the end
of the room and watched them proudly. The Mixed Infants, seeing him enter with his sack, brightened and instructed by the helpers, broke into a thin shrill cheer. A helper came down to greet
him.
‘How good of you to come,’ she said gushingly. ‘I suppose Mr Solomon couldn’t get off himself. Such an indefatigable worker, isn’t he? The procession first, of
course – the children know just what to do – we’ve been rehearsing it.’
The Mixed Infants were already getting into line. The ‘helper’ motioned William to the head of it. William stepped into position.
‘Twice round the room, you know,’ said the helper, ‘and then distribute the presents.’
William began very slowly to walk round the room, his sack on his shoulder, his train of Mixed Infants prancing joyously behind. William’s brain was working quickly. He had not looked into
the bag he was carrying, but he had a strong suspicion that he would soon be distributing packets of tea and tobacco to a gathering of outraged Mixed Infants. Surely the fury of the Old Folks
presented with dolls and engines would be as nothing to the fury of Mixed Infants presented with packets of tea and tobacco. His hopes of being admitted into Mr Solomon’s band faded into
nothingness.
He began his second peregrination of the room. Fond mothers gazed in rapt admiration – each at her own particular Mixed Infant. William walked very slowly. He was trying to put off the
evil hour when he must open the sack and take out the packets of tea and tobacco. Then suddenly he decided not to await meekly the blows of Fate. Instead he’d play a bold game. He’d
carry the war into the enemy’s country.
The mothers and helpers were surprised when suddenly William, followed by his faithful band (who would have died martyrs’ deaths sooner than lose sight of that sack for one moment), walked
out of the door and disappeared from view. But an
them. Something fresh to grumble at was almost in the nature of a godsend. Of course they’d have grumbled at their presents whatever they’d been, but anything so unusually and
satisfactorily easy to grumble at as these unsuitable presents was almost exhilarating.
William gathered from the almost homicidal expressions with which the young man and woman helpers were watching him that it would be as well to retire as hastily as possible. He handed his last
present, a child’s paintbox, to a deaf and blind old woman by the door, and departed almost precipitately. Then the storm broke out and a torrent of shrill indignation pursued his retreating
form.
He returned to the little classroom he had chosen as his dressing-room and stood contemplating his other costume and other sack. Yes, impersonally and impartially he could not help admitting
that the changing of the sacks had been a mistake, but it was done now and he must just carry on as best as he could.
It took some time to change into the Pied Piper costume and he retained his beard and wig in order the better to conceal his identity. Then he shouldered his other sack and set off to follow the
numerous placards whose hands crippled apparently by rheumatism or some other terrible complaint continued with dogged British determination to do their duty and point the way to the room where the
Mixed Infants were assembled.
William had become very thoughtful. He was realising the fact that in all probability his fulfilment of Mr Solomon’s rôles that afternoon would not be such as to melt Mr
Solomon’s heart towards him and make him admit him as trumpeter into his band. He doubted if even Ethel’s charm would be strong enough to counter-balance the Old Folks’ presents.
And he did so dearly want to enter Mr Solomon’s band as a trumpeter. He must try to think of some way.
He flung open the door of a room in which a few dozen Mixed Infants gambolled half-heartedly at the bidding of the conscientious ‘helpers’. A little cluster of mothers sat at the end
of the room and watched them proudly. The Mixed Infants, seeing him enter with his sack, brightened and instructed by the helpers, broke into a thin shrill cheer. A helper came down to greet
him.
‘How good of you to come,’ she said gushingly. ‘I suppose Mr Solomon couldn’t get off himself. Such an indefatigable worker, isn’t he? The procession first, of
course – the children know just what to do – we’ve been rehearsing it.’
The Mixed Infants were already getting into line. The ‘helper’ motioned William to the head of it. William stepped into position.
‘Twice round the room, you know,’ said the helper, ‘and then distribute the presents.’
William began very slowly to walk round the room, his sack on his shoulder, his train of Mixed Infants prancing joyously behind. William’s brain was working quickly. He had not looked into
the bag he was carrying, but he had a strong suspicion that he would soon be distributing packets of tea and tobacco to a gathering of outraged Mixed Infants. Surely the fury of the Old Folks
presented with dolls and engines would be as nothing to the fury of Mixed Infants presented with packets of tea and tobacco. His hopes of being admitted into Mr Solomon’s band faded into
nothingness.
He began his second peregrination of the room. Fond mothers gazed in rapt admiration – each at her own particular Mixed Infant. William walked very slowly. He was trying to put off the
evil hour when he must open the sack and take out the packets of tea and tobacco. Then suddenly he decided not to await meekly the blows of Fate. Instead he’d play a bold game. He’d
carry the war into the enemy’s country.
The mothers and helpers were surprised when suddenly William, followed by his faithful band (who would have died martyrs’ deaths sooner than lose sight of that sack for one moment), walked
out of the door and disappeared from view. But an
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