William had managed the somersault, but it had somehow brought his
feet into collision with Uncle George's neck. Uncle George sleepily
shifted his position.
[Illustration: WILLIAM WAS ON THE FLOOR BEHIND UNCLE GEORGE'S CHAIR
ENDEAVOURING TO TURN A SOMERSAULT IN A VERY RESTRICTED SPACE.]
"Boisterous! Boisterous!" he murmured disapprovingly. "You should
combine the gentleness of a Moore with the courage of a Wellington,
William."
William now perceived that Uncle George's eyelids were drooping
slowly and William's sudden statuesque calm would have surprised many
of his instructors.
The silence and the warmth of the room had their effect. In less than
three minutes Uncle George was dead to the world around him.
William's form relaxed, then he crept up to look closely at the face
of his enemy. He decided that he disliked it intensely. Something must
be done at once. He looked round the room. There were not many weapons
handy. Only his mother's work-box stood on a chair by the window, and
on it a pile of socks belonging to Robert, William's elder brother.
Beneath either arm of his chair one of Uncle George's coat-tails
protruded. William soon departed on his way rejoicing, while on to one
of Uncle George's coat-tails was firmly stitched a bright blue sock
and on to the other a brilliant orange one. Robert's taste in socks
was decidedly loud. William felt almost happy. The rain had stopped
and he spent the morning with some of his friends whom he met in the
road.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70