Free William The Conqueror by Richmal Crompton Page A

anyway,’ he said, ‘let’s get a move on buildin’ that church.’
    They returned to the field and their little pile of bricks.
    But the British workman had also returned from his dinner hour at the nearest pub, and had discovered the disappearance of the larger part of his material. With lurid oaths he had tracked them
down and came upon the saints just as they had laboriously laid the first row of bricks for the first wall. He burst upon them with fury.
    They did not stay to argue. They fled. Henry cast aside his splendid robe of multi-coloured bath towelling into a ditch to accelerate his flight. The British workman tired first. He went back
after throwing a brick at their retreating forms and informing them lustily that he knew their fathers an’ he’d go an’ tell them, danged if he wouldn’t, and they’d
find themselves in jail – saucy little ’ounds – danged if they wouldn’t.
    The Williamcans waited till all was clear before they emerged from their hiding places and gathered together dejectedly in the barn. William and Ginger had sustained black eyes and bleeding
noses as the result of the fight with the village children. Douglas had fallen during the flight from the British workman and caught Henry on his ankle, and he limped painfully. Their faces had
acquired an extraordinary amount of dirt.
    They sat down and surveyed each other.
    ‘Seems to me,’ said William, ‘it’s a wearin ’ kind of life.’
    It was cold. It had begun to rain.
    ‘Brother rain,’ remarked Ginger brightly.
    ‘Yes, an’ I should think it’s about sister tea-time,’ said William dejectedly; ‘an’ what we goin’ to buy it – her – with? How’re we
goin’ to get money?’
    ‘I’ve got sixpence at home,’ said Henry. ‘I mean I’ve gotter brother sixpence at home.’
    But William had lost his usual optimism.
    ‘Well, that won’t keep all of us for the rest of our lives, will it?’ he said; ‘an’ I don’t feel like startin’ beggin’ after the time I’ve
had today. I haven’t got much trust in folks.’
    ‘Henry – I mean, St Henry – oughter give his brother sixpence to the poor,’ said Ginger piously. ‘ They uster give all their money to the poor.’
    ‘ Give it?’ said William incredulously. ‘An’ get nothin’ back for it?’
    ‘No – jus’ give it,’ said Ginger.
    William thought deeply for a minute.
    ‘Well,’ he said at last, voicing the opinion of the whole order, ‘I’m jus’ about sick of bein’ a saint. I’d sooner be a pirate or a Red Indian any
day.’
    The rest looked relieved.
    ‘Yes, I’ve had enough ,’ said William, ‘and let’s stop callin’ each other saints an’ brothers an’ sisters an’ wearin’
dressing-gowns. There’s no sense in it. An’ I’m almost dyin’ of cold an’ hunger an’ I’m goin’ home.’
    They set off homeward through the rain, cold and wet and bruised and very hungry. The saintly repast of cream buns and chocolate creams and bull’s-eyes, though enjoyable at the time, had
proved singularly unsustaining.
    But their troubles were not over.
    As they went through the village they stopped in front of Mr Marsh’s shop window. There in the very middle were William’s father’s slippers, Douglas’ father’s
inkstand, Ginger’s father’s tie and Henry’s father’s gloves – all marked at 1/-. The hearts of the Williamcans stood still. Their fathers would probably not yet have
returned from Town. The thought of their seeing their prized possessions reposing in Mr Marsh’s window marked 1/ - was a horrid one. It had not seemed to matter this morning. This
morning they were leaving their homes for ever. It did seem to matter this evening. This evening they were returning to their homes.
    They entered the shop and demanded them. Mr Marsh was adamant. In the end Henry fetched his sixpence, William a treasured penknife, Ginger a compass, and Douglas a broken steam engine, and their
paternal possessions were