Still William Read Free Page A

the table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again, and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar,
shifted his position in the tree again to get a better aim.
    ‘Do you know,’ said the Bishop, ‘I believe that there is a cat in the tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.’
    It would have been better for William to remain silent, but William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent investigation; to prove once and for all his identity as a
cat.
    He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing ‘Mi -aw-aw-aw !’
    As imitations go it was rather good.
    There was a slight silence. Then:
    ‘It is a cat,’ said the Bishop in triumph.
    ‘Excuse me, My Lord,’ said the Vicar.
    He went softly into the house and returned holding a shoe.
    ‘This will settle His Feline Majesty,’ he smiled.
    Then he hurled the shoe violently into the tree.
    ‘Shh! Scoot!’ he said as he did it.
    William was annoyed. The shoe narrowly missed his face. He secured it and waited.
    ‘I hope you haven’t lost the shoe,’ said the Bishop anxiously.
    ‘Oh, no. The gardener’s boy or someone will get it for me. It’s the best thing to do with cats. It’s probably scared it on to the roof.’
    He settled himself in his chair comfortably with a smile.
    William leant down, held the shoe deliberately over the bald head, then dropped it.
    ‘Damn!’ said the Vicar. ‘Excuse me, My Lord.’
    ‘H’m,’ said the Bishop. ‘Er – yes – most annoying. It lodged in a branch for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.’
    The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on
which he was was not a very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it became.
    There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and William.
    The Bishop gazed at him. ‘Why, that’s the boy,’ he said.
    William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch
and the table, and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.
    ‘Crumbs!’ was all he said.
    The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.
    ‘You know, my boy,’ said the Bishop in mild reproach, ‘that’s a very curious thing to do – to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping. I know that you are an
earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you know.
Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things people didn’t want you to hear, would
you?’
    William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing memories of acorns and shoes and ‘damns’ and with murder in his heart, was picking up twigs and broken glass.
He knew that he could not, in the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:
    ‘You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him tomorrow.’
    ‘A well-meaning, little boy, I’m sure,’ said the Bishop kindly. ‘Well-meaning, but unwise – er – unwise. But your attentiveness during the meeting did you
credit, my boy – did you credit.’
    William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to the occasion.
    ‘Hurry up,’ said the Vicar.
    William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He
understood the Vicar’s veiled