"Fancy you bein' a smuggler all the time!" he said with righteous indignation in his voice.
"Take away that--er--nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive plaintively.
"You--ah--don't understand it. It--er--might go off."
William was not a boy to indulge in half measures. He meant to carry the matter off with a high hand.
"I'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus'
what I tell you."
Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he strove to make playful. "Is it--ah--is it loaded? It's--ah--unwise, little boy. Most unwise. Er--give it to me to--er--take care of.
It--er--might go off, you know."
William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had, however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As a matter of fact Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject coward.
"You walk up to the seats," commanded William. "I've took you prisoner for smugglin' an'--an'--jus' walk up to the seats."
Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity.
"Don't--er--_press_ anything, little boy," he pleaded as he went.
"It--ah--might go off by accident. You might do--ah--untold damage."
Peggy, armed with the wastepaper basket and the skin, followed open-mouthed.
At the seat William paused.
"Peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down--case he struggles, an' tie the skin wot I shot round him, case he struggles."
Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. Their victim made no protest. He seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. The only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that William held out at him in the darkness. He was hardly aware of the wastepaper basket thrust over his head. He watched William anxiously through the basket-work.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Be careful, boy!"
He hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw.
Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.
Then came the irate summons of Peggy's nurse through the dusk.
"Oh, William," she said panting with excitement, "I don't want to leave you. Oh, William, he might _kill_ you!"
"You go on. I'm all right," he said with conscious valour. "He can't do nothin' 'cause I've got a gun an' I can shoot him dead,"--Mr.
Percival Jones shuddered afresh,--"an' he's all tied up an' I've took him prisoner an' I'm goin' to take him home."
"Oh, William, you are brave!" she whispered in the darkness as she flitted away to her nurse.
William blushed with pride and embarrassment.
Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint.
Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him.
"It's all right, little boy," he said soothingly, "quite all right.
I'm--er--your friend. Don't--ah--get annoyed, little boy.
Don't--ah--get annoyed. Won't you put your gun down, little man? Won't you let me carry it for you?"
William walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.
"I've took you prisoner for smugglin'," he repeated doggedly. "I'm takin' you home. You're my prisoner. I've took you."
They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones threw longing glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue. He was afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor to murder. He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened up the walk and up the stairs. The drawing-room door was open. There was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange persecution. He entered, followed closely by William. It was about the time he had promised to read his "little effort" on the Coming of Spring to his circle of admirers. A group of elderly ladies sat round the fire awaiting him. Ethel was writing. They turned as he entered and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. It was that gasp that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur rug was tied round his arms.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they gasped.
He gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor, revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they repeated.
"I caught him smugglin'" said William proudly. "I caught him smugglin'
beer by the sea an' he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled an' he had thousands an' _thousands_ of cigars all over him, an' I caught him, an' he's a smuggler an' I brought him up here with my gun.
He's a smuggler an' I took him prisoner."
Mr. Jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the wickerwork of his basket. He moistened his lips. "This is an outrage,"
he spluttered.
Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.
"He was drinkin' 'em by the sea," said William.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they chorused again.
He flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of the establishment who stood by the door.
"I will not brook such treatment," he stammered in fury. "I leave your roof to-night. I am outraged--humiliated. I--I disdain to explain.
I--leave your roof to-night."
"Mr. _Jones_!" they said once more.
[Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM SMUGGLING," WILLIAM EXPLAINED PROUDLY.
"HE HAD THOUSANDS AN' THOUSANDS OF CIGARS AND THAT BEER!"]
Mr. Jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at William on his way.
"You _wicked_ boy! You wicked little, _untruthful_ boy," he said.
William looked after him. "He's my prisoner an' they've let him go,"
he said aggrievedly.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. Mr. Brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.