William retired upstairs to his bedroom and counted out his
money--twopence was all he possessed. He had expended the enormous sum
of a shilling the day before on a grass snake. It had died in the
night. He _must_ get a cream blanc-mange somehow. His reputation for
omnipotence in the eyes of the little girl next door--a reputation
very dear to him--depended on it. And if cook would do it for sixpence,
he must find sixpence. By fair means or foul it must be done. He'd tried
fair means, and there only remained foul. He went softly downstairs to
the dining-room, where, upon the mantel-piece, reposed the missionary-box.
He'd tell someone next day, or put it back, or something. Anyway, people
did worse things than that in the pictures. With a knife from the table
he extracted the contents--three-halfpence! He glared at it balefully.
"Three-halfpence!" he said aloud in righteous indignation. "This
supposed to be a Christian house, and three-halfpence is all they can
give to the poor heathen. They can spend pounds and pounds on,"--he
glanced round the room and saw a pyramid of pears on the
sideboard--"tons of pears an'--an' green stuff to put on the walls,
and they give three-halfpence to the poor heathen! Huh!"
He opened the door and heard his sister's voice from the library.
"He's probably in mischief somewhere. He'll be a perfect nuisance all
the evening. Mother, couldn't you make him go to bed an hour earlier?"
William had no doubt as to the subject of the conversation.
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