More William by Richmal Crompton Page B

his youth. His usual feeling of mild contempt for Uncle George was beginning to give way to one which was
much stronger.
    ‘Now, William,’ said Uncle George at breakfast, ‘I‘m afraid it’s going to rain today, so we’ll do a little work together this morning, shall we? Nothing like
work, is there? Your Arithmetic’s a bit shaky, isn’t it? We’ll rub that up. We love our work, don’t we?’
    William eyed him coldly.
    ‘I don’t think I’d better get muddlin’ up my school work,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t like to be more on than the other boys next term. It wouldn’t be
fair to them.’
    Uncle George rubbed his hands.
    ‘That feeling does you credit, my boy,’ he said, ‘but if we go over some of the old work, no harm can be done. History, now. There’s nothing like History, is
there?’
    William agreed quite heartily that there wasn’t.
    ‘We’ll do some History, then,’ said Uncle George briskly. ‘The lives of the great. Most inspiring. Better than those terrible things you used to waste your time on,
eh?’
    The ‘terrible things’ had included a trumpet, a beloved motor hooter, and an ingenious instrument very dear to William’s soul that reproduced most realistically the sound of
two cats fighting. These, at Uncle George’s request, had been confiscated by William’s father. Uncle George had not considered them educational. They also disturbed his afternoon
rest.
    Uncle George settled himself and William down for a nice quiet morning in the library. William, looking round for escape, found none. The outside world was wholly uninviting. The rain came down
in torrents. Moreover, the five preceding weeks had broken William’s spirits. He realised the impossibility of evading Uncle George. His own family were not sympathetic. They suffered from
him considerably during the rest of the year and were not sorry to see him absorbed completely by Uncle George’s conscientious zeal.
    So Uncle George seated himself slowly and ponderously in an armchair by the fire.
    ‘When I was a boy, William,’ he began, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, ‘I loved my studies. I‘M sure you love your studies, don’t you?
Which do you love most?’
    ‘Me?’ said William. ‘I like shootin’ and playin’ Red Injuns.’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ said Uncle George impatiently, ‘but those aren’t studies , William. You must aim at being gentle .’
    ‘It’s not much good bein’ gentle when you’re playin’ Red Injuns,’ said William stoutly. ‘A gentle Red Injun wun’t get much
done.’
    Ah, but why play Red Indians?’ said Uncle George. A nasty rough game. No, we’ll talk about History. You must mould your character upon that of the great heroes, William. You must be
a Clive, a Napoleon, a Wolfe.’
    ‘I’ve often been a wolf,’ said William. ‘That game’s nearly as good as Red Injuns. An’ Bears is a good game too. We might have Bears here,’ he went on
brightening. ‘Jus’ you an’ me. Would you sooner be bear or hunter? I’d sooner be hunter,’ he hinted gently
    ‘You misunderstand,’ said Uncle George. ‘I mean Wolfe the man, Wolfe the hero.’
    William, who had little patience with heroes who came within the school curriculum, relapsed into gloom.
    ‘What lessons do we learn from such names, my boy?’ went on Uncle George.
    William was on the floor behind Uncle George’s chair endeavouring to turn a somersault in a very restricted space.
    ‘History lessons an’ dates an’ things,’ he said shortly. An’ the things they ’spect you to remember—’ he added with disgust.
    ‘No, no,’ said Uncle George, but the fire was hot and his chair was comfortable and his educational zeal was dying away, ‘to endure the buffets of fate with equanimity, to
smile at misfortune, to endure whatever comes, and so on—’
    He stopped suddenly.

    WILLIAM WAS ON THE FLOOR BEHIND UNCLE GEORGE’S CHAIR ENDEAVOURING TO TURN A SOMERSAULT IN A VERY