Free More William by Richmal Crompton

white silk socks. His golden curls shone. He looked angelic.
    ‘Oh, the darling!’
    ‘Isn’t he adorable?’
    ‘What a picture !’
    ‘Come here, sweetheart.’
    Cuthbert was quite used to this sort of thing.
    They were more delighted than ever with him when they discovered his lisp.
    His manners were perfect. He raised his face, with a charming smile, to be kissed, then sat down on the sofa between Joan and Mrs Clive, swinging long bare legs.
    William, sitting, an unwilling victim, on a small chair in a corner of the room, brushed and washed till he shone again, was conscious of a feeling of fury quite apart from the usual sense of
outrage that he always felt upon such an occasion. It was bad enough to be washed till the soap went into his eyes and down his ears despite all his protests. It was bad enough to have had his hair
brushed till his head smarted. It was bad enough to be hustled out of his comfortable jersey into his Eton suit which he loathed. But to see Joan, his Joan, sitting next to the strange,
dressed-up, lisping boy, smiling and talking to him, that was almost more than he could bear with calmness. Previously, as has been said, he had received Joan’s adoration with coldness, but
previously there had been no rival.
    ‘William,’ said his mother, ‘take Joan and Cuthbert and show them your engine and books and things. Remember you’re the host , dear,’ she murmured as he
passed. ‘Try to make them happy.’
    He turned upon her a glance that would have made a stronger woman quail.
    Silently he led them up to his play room.
    ‘There’s my engine, an’ my books. You can play with them,’ he said coldly to Cuthbert. ‘Let’s go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan.’
    But Joan shook her head.
    ‘I don’t thuppoth the’d care to go out without me,’ said Cuthbert airily. ‘ I’ll go with you. Thith boy can play here if he liketh.’
    And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no response.
    He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority.
    ‘You can’t climb that tree,’ he began.
    ‘I can,’ said Cuthbert sweetly.
    ‘Well, climb it then,’ he said grimly.
    ‘No, I don’t want to get my thingth all methed. I can climb, but you can’t. He can’t climb it, Joan, he’th trying to pretend he can climb it when he
can’t. He knowth I can climb it, but I don’t want to get my thingth methed.’
    Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert.
    ‘I’ll show you,’ said William desperately. ‘I’ll just show you.’
    He showed them.
    He climbed till the treetop swayed with his weight, then descended, hot and triumphant. The tree was covered with green lichen, a great part of which had deposited itself upon William’s
suit. His efforts had also twisted his collar round till its stud was beneath his ear. His heated countenance beamed with pride.
    For a moment Cuthbert was nonplussed. Then he said scornfully:
    ‘Don’t he look a fright , Joan?’
    Joan giggled.
    But William was wholly engrossed in his self-imposed task of ‘showing them’. He led them to the bottom of the garden, where a small stream (now almost dry) disappeared into a narrow
tunnel to flow under the road and reappear in the field at the other side.
    ‘You can’t crawl through that,’ challenged William, ‘You can’t do it. I’ve done it, done it often. I bet you can’t. I bet you
can’t get halfway. I—’
    ‘Well, do it, then!’ jeered Cuthbert.
    William, on all fours, disappeared into the mud and slime of the small round aperture. Joan clasped her hands, and even Cuthbert was secretly impressed. They stood in silence. At intervals
William’s muffled voice came from the tunnel.
    ‘It’s jolly muddy, too, I can tell you.’
    ‘I’ve caught a frog! I say, I’ve caught a frog!’
    ‘Crumbs! It’s got away!’
    ‘It’s nearly quicksands here.’
    ‘If I tried I could nearly drown here!’
    At last, through the hedge,