William The Outlaw by Richmal Crompton Page A

intelligent helper smiled brightly and said:
    ‘How thoughtful! He’s just going to take them once round the School outside. I expect quite a lot of people are hanging about hoping for a glimpse of them.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ suggested a mother, ‘he’s taken them for a peep at the Old Folks’ party.’
    ‘Who is he?’ said another. ‘I thought Mr Solomon was to have come.’
    ‘Oh, it’s probably one of Mr Solomon’s elder Sunday School boys. He told me once that he believed in training them up in habits of social service. He’s a wonderful man, I think.’
    ‘Isn’t he?’ sighed another, ‘ lives for duty – I’m so sorry he couldn’t come today.’
    ‘Well, I’m sure,’ said the first, ‘he’d have come if some more pressing duty hadn’t detained him. The dear man’s probably reading to some poor invalid
at this moment.’
    At that moment as a matter of fact the dear man had got to the point where he was earnestly informing Ethel that no one had ever – ever – ever understood him in all his life
before as she did.
    ‘I don’t think that Johnnie ought to have gone out of doors,’ complained a mother, ‘he hadn’t got his chest protector on.’
    ‘It’s only for a second,’ said a helper soothingly, ‘it will air the room a bit.’
    ‘But it won’t put Johnnie’s chest protector on,’ said the mother pugnaciously. ‘And what’s the use of airing the room when we’d only just got it nice
and warm for them.’
    ‘I’ll go out and see where they are,’ said the helper obligingly. She went out and looked round the School playground. The School playground was empty. She walked round to the
other side of the School. There was no one there. There was no sign of anyone anywhere. She returned to the mothers and other helpers.
    ‘They must have gone to see the Old Folks’ party,’ she said.
    ‘If they’re not outside,’ said Johnnie’s mother, ‘I don’t mind. All I meant was that if he was outside he ought to be wearing his chest protector.’
    ‘I think,’ said another helper rather haughtily, ‘that that boy ought to have told us that he was going to take them to see the Old Folks. When I offer to help at a
party I like to be consulted about the arrangements.’
    ‘Well, let’s go and find them,’ said Johnnie’s mother. ‘I don’t want Johnnie wandering about these nasty draughty passages without it. I wish now that
I’d never taken it off.’
    They set off in a body to the room where the Old Folks’ party was being held. The Old Folks, sitting round the room, still held their little dolls or engines and toy boats, and were
grumbling to each other about them with morbid relish. One helper was at the piano singing a cheerful little song to which no one was listening. The other was bending over an octogenarian, who
despite himself was becoming interested in the workings of his clockwork ’bus. This interest, however, was disapproved of by the rest.
    ‘Disgustin’, I call it!’ an old man was saying to his neighbour holding out the toy train signal with which William had presented him.
    The neighbour who was tired of talking about his toy mouse glared ferociously at the performer.
    ‘Kickin’ up such a din a body can’t hear himself speak,’ he muttered.
    The mothers and helpers of the Mixed Infants looked around anxiously, then swept up to the helpers of the Old Folks. A hasty whispered consultation took place. No, the Pied Piper and Mixed
Infants had not visited them at all. Probably they had returned to their own room by now. The mothers and helpers hurried back to the room. It was still empty. Talking excitedly they poured out
into the playground. It was empty. They poured out into the street. It was empty. Part of them tore frenziedly up the street and part tore equally frenziedly to search the building again.
Everything was empty. The old legend had come true. A Pied Piper followed by every Mixed Infant in the village had vanished completely from