And then:--
"_Where's Joan?_"
They searched the house and garden and stable for them in vain. They sent the twenty enraged guests home supperless and aggrieved.
"Has William eaten _all_ our suppers?" they said.
"Where _is_ he? Is he dead?"
"People will never forget," wailed Mrs. Brown. "It's simply dreadful.
And where _is_ William?"
They rang up police-stations for miles around.
"If they've eaten all that food--the two of them," said Mrs. Brown almost distraught, "they'll _die_! They may be dying in some hospital now! And I do wish Mrs. Murford would stop ringing up about Sadie's cloak. I've told her it's not here!"
Meantime there was dancing, and singing, and games, and cracker-pulling in a small house in a back street not very far away.
"I've never had such a _lovely_ time in my life," gasped the Kid breathlessly at the end of one of the many games into which William had initiated them. "I've never, never, _never_----"
"We won't ferget you in a 'urry, young man," her father added, "nor the little lady neither. We'll 'ave many talks about this 'ere!"
Joan was sitting on the bed, laughing and panting, her curls all disordered.
"I wish," said William wistfully, "I wish you'd let me come with you when you go stealin' some day!"
"I'm not goin' stealin' _no_ more, young gent," said his friend solemnly. "I got a job--a real steady job--brick-layin', an' I'm goin'
to stick to it."
All good things must come to an end, and soon William donned his red dressing-gown again and Joan her borrowed cloak, and they helped to store the remnants of the feast in the larder--the remnants of the feast would provide the ex-burglar and his family with food for many days to come. Then they took the empty hand-cart and, after many fond farewells, set off homeward through the dark.
Mr. Brown had come home and assumed charge of operations.
Ethel was weeping on the sofa in the library.
"Oh, dear little William!" she sobbed. "I do _wish_ I'd always been kind to him!"
Mrs. Brown was reclining, pale and haggard, in the arm-chair.
"There's the Roughborough Canal, John!" she was saying weakly. "And Joan's mother will always say it was our fault. Oh, _poor_ little William!"
"It's a good ten miles away," said her husband drily. "I don't think even William----" He rang up fiercely. "Confound these brainless police!
Hallo! Any news? A boy and girl and supper for twenty can't disappear off the face of the earth. No, there had been _no_ trouble at home.
There probably _will_ be when he turns up, but there was none before!
If he wanted to run away, why would he burden himself with a supper for twenty? Why--one minute!"
The front door opened and Mrs. Brown ran into the hall.
A well-known voice was heard speaking quickly and irritably.
"I jus' went away, that's all! I jus' thought of something I wanted to do, that's all! Yes, I _did_ take the supper. I jus' wanted it for something. It's a secret what I wanted it for, I----"
[Illustration: "WASN'T SHE A JOLLY LITTLE KID?" WILLIAM SAID EAGERLY.]
"_William_!" said Mr. Brown.
Through the scenes that followed William preserved a dignified silence, even to the point of refusing any explanation. Such explanation as there was filtered through from Joan's mother by means of the telephone.
"It was all William's idea," Joan's mother said plaintively. "Joan would never have done _anything_ if William hadn't practically _made_ her. I expect she's caught her death of cold. She's in bed now----"
"Yes, so is William. I can't _think_ what they wanted to take _all_ the food for. And he was just a common man straight from prison. It's dreadful. I do hope they haven't picked up any awful language. Have you given Joan some quinine? Oh, Mrs. Murford's just rung up to see if Sadie's cloak has turned up. Will you send it round? I feel so _upset_ by it all. If it wasn't Christmas Eve----"
The houses occupied by William's and Joan's families respectively were semi-detached, but William's and Joan's bedroom windows faced each other, and there was only about five yards between them.
[Illustration: "YES," A PAUSE, THEN--"WILLIAM, YOU DON'T LIKE HER BETTER THAN ME, DO YOU?"]
There came to William's ears as he lay drowsily in bed the sound of a gentle rattle at the window. He got up and opened it. At the opposite window a little white-robed figure leant out, whose golden curls shone in the starlight.
"William," she whispered, "I threw some beads to see if you were awake. Were your folks mad?"
"Awful," said William laconically.
"Mine were too. I di'n't care, did you?"
"No, I di'n't. Not a bit!"
"William, wasn't it _fun_? I wish it was just beginning again, don't you?"
"Yes, I jus' do. I say, Joan, wasn't she a jolly little kid and di'n't she dance fine?"
"Yes,"--a pause--then, "William, you don't like her better'n me, do you?"
William considered.
"No, I don't," he said at last.
A soft sigh of relief came through the darkness.
"I'm so _glad_! Go'-night, William."
"Go'-night," said William sleepily, drawing down his window as he spoke.