Still William Read Free

drew the delicate handkerchief once more over his rubicund features. In the tree William abandoned his airy pastime, and his face took
on again the expression of soulful earnestness that had pleased the Bishop.
    The breast of the Bishop on the lawn began to rise and sink. The figure of the Vicar was visible at the study window as he gazed with fond pride upon the slumbers of his distinguished guest.
William dared not descend in view of that watching figure. Finally it sat down in a chair by the window and began to read a book.
    Then William began to act. He took from his pocket a bent pin attached to a piece of string. This apparatus lived permanently in his pocket, because he had not given up hope of catching a trout
in the village stream. He lowered this cautiously and drew the bent pin carefully on to the white linen expanse.
    It caught – joy!
    ‘Phut!’ said the Bishop, bringing down his hand heavily, not on the pin, but near it.
    The pin was loosened – William drew it back cautiously up into the tree, and the Bishop settled himself once more to his slumbers.
    Again the pin descended – again it caught.
    ‘Phut!’ said the Bishop, testily shaking the handkerchief, and again loosening the pin.
    Leaning down from his leafy retreat William made one last desperate effort. He drew the bent pin sharply across. It missed the handkerchief and it caught the Bishop’s ear. The Bishop sat
up with a scream. William, pin and string, withdrew into the shade of the branches. ‘Crumbs!’ said William desperately to the caterpillar, ‘talk about bad luck !’
    The Vicar ran out from the house, full of concern at the sound of the Bishop’s scream.

    FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.
    ‘I’ve been badly stung in the ear by some insect,’ said the Bishop in a voice that was pained and dignified. ‘Some virulent tropical insect, I should think – very
painful. Very painful indeed—’
    ‘My Lord,’ said the Vicar, ‘I am so sorry – so very sorry – a thousand pardons – can I procure some remedy for you – vaseline, ammonia – er
– cold cream—?’ Up in the tree the pantomimic imitation of him went on much to William’s satisfaction.

    THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR, AND THE BISHOP SAT UP WITH A LITTLE SCREAM.
    ‘No, no, no, no,’ snapped the Bishop. ‘This must be a bad place for insects, that’s all. Even before that some heavy creatures came banging against my handkerchief. I put
my handkerchief over my face for protection. If I had failed to do that I should have been badly stung.’
    ‘Shall we dine indoors, then, My Lord?’ said the Vicar.
    ‘Oh, no, no, NO!’ said the Bishop impatiently.
    The Vicar sat down upon his chair. William collected a handful of acorns and began to drop them one by one upon the Vicar’s bald head. He did this simply because he could not help it. The
sight of the Vicar’s bald head was irresistible. Each time an acorn struck the Vicar’s bald head it bounced up into the air, and the Vicar put up his hand and rubbed his head. At first
he tried to continue his conversation on the state of the parish finances with the Bishop but his replies became distrait and incoherent. He moved his chair slightly. William moved the position of
his arm and continued to drop acorns.
    At last the Bishop noticed it.
    ‘The acorns seem to be falling,’ he said.
    The Vicar rubbed his head again.
    ‘Don’t they?’ he said.
    ‘Rather early,’ commented the Bishop.
    ‘Isn’t it?’ he said as another acorn bounced upon his head.
    The Bishop began to take quite an interest in the unusual phenomenon.
    ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that tree,’ he said. ‘It would account for the premature dropping of the acorns and for the insects that
attacked me.’
    ‘Exactly,’ said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him. William’s aim was unerring.
    Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay