Just William Read Free Page A

your name over and over again. “Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan.”’ William’s voice was husky and soulful. ‘Jus’ like that – over
an’ over again. “Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan.”’
    Mr Morgan was speechless. He sat gazing with horror-stricken face at his young visitor.
    ‘Are you – sure ?’ he said at last. ‘It might be someone else’s name.’
    ‘No, ’tisn’t,’ said William firmly. ‘It’s yours. “Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan” – jus’ like that. An’ she eats just
nothin’ now. Always hangin’ round the windows to watch you pass.’
    The perspiration stood out in beads on Mr Morgan’s brow.
    ‘It’s – horrible ,’ he said at last in a hoarse whisper.
    William was gratified. The young man had at last realised his cruelty. But William never liked to leave a task half done. He still sat on and calmly and silently considered his next statement.
Mechanically he put a hand into his pocket and conveyed a Gooseberry Eye to his mouth. Mr Morgan also sat in silence with a stricken look upon his face, gazing into vacancy.
    ‘She’s got your photo,’ said William at last, ‘fixed up into one of those little round things on a chain round her neck.’
    ‘Are – you – sure ?’ said Mr Morgan desperately.
    ‘Sure’s fate,’ said William rising. ‘Well, I’d better be goin’. She pertic-ler wants to see you alone tonight. Goodbye.’
    But Mr Morgan did not answer. He sat huddled up in his chair staring in front of him long after William had gone jauntily on his way. Then he moistened his dry lips.
    ‘Good Lord,’ he groaned.
    William was thinking of the pictures as he went home. That painter one was jolly good. When they all got all over paint! And when they all fell downstairs! William suddenly guffawed out loud at
the memory. But what had the painter chap been doing at the very beginning before he began to paint? He’d been getting off the old paint with a sort of torch thing and a knife, then he began
putting the new paint on. Just sort of melting the old paint and then scraping it off. William had never seen it done in real life, but he supposed that was the way you did get old paint off.
Melting it with some sort of fire, then scraping it off. He wasn’t sure whether it was that, but he could find out. As he entered the house he took his penknife from his pocket, opened it
thoughtfully, and went upstairs.
    Mr Brown came home about dinnertime.
    ‘How’s your head, Father?’ said Ethel sympathetically.
    ‘Rotten!’ said Mr Brown, sinking wearily into an armchair.
    ‘Perhaps dinner will do it good,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘it ought to be ready now.’
    The housemaid entered the room.
    ‘Mr Morgan, Mum. He wants to see Miss Ethel. I’ve shown him into the library.’
    ‘ Now ?’ exploded Mr Brown. ‘What the deu— why the dickens is the young idiot coming at this time of day? Seven o’clock! What time does he think we have
dinner? What does he mean by coming round paying calls on people at dinnertime? What—’
    ‘Ethel, dear,’ interrupted Mrs Brown, ‘do go and see what he wants and get rid of him as soon as you can.’
    Ethel entered the library, carefully closing the door behind her to keep out the sound of her father’s comments, which were plainly audible across the hall.
    She noticed something wan and haggard-looking on Mr Morgan’s face as he rose to greet her.
    ‘Er — good evening, Miss Brown.’
    ‘Good evening, Mr Morgan.’
    Then they sat in silence, both awaiting some explanation of the visit. The silence became oppressive. Mr Morgan, with an air of acute misery and embarrassment, shifted his feet and coughed.
Ethel looked at the clock. Then –
    ‘Was it raining when you came, Mr Morgan?’
    ‘Raining? Er — no. No — not at all.’
    Silence.
    ‘I thought it looked like rain this afternoon.’
    ‘Yes, of course. Er – no, not at all.’
    Silence.
    ‘It does make the roads so bad round here when it