William could not deny it.
"Well, I was makin' sumthin', sumthin' he'd told us an' I forgot it.
Well, I've _got_ to make things if I'm a scout. I didn't _mean_ to
forget it. I won't forget it next time. It's a rotten pan, anyway, to
burn itself into a hole jus' for that."
At this point William's father received a note from a neighbour whose
garden adjoined William's and whose life had been rendered intolerable
by William's efforts upon his bugle.
The bugle was confiscated.
Darkness descended upon William's soul.
"Well," he muttered, "I'm goin' under canvas next week an' I'm jolly
_glad_ I'm goin'. P'r'aps you'll be sorry when I'm gone."
He went out into the garden and stood gazing moodily into space, his
hands in the pocket of his short scout trousers, for William dressed
on any and every occasion in his official costume.
"Can't even have the bugle," he complained to the landscape. "Can't
even use their rotten ole pans. Can't tie knots in any of their ole
things. Wot's the good of _bein'_ a scout?"
His indignation grew and with it a desire to be avenged upon his
family.
"I'd like to _do_ somethin'," he confided to a rose bush with a
ferocious scowl. "Somethin' jus' to show 'em."
Then his face brightened. He had an idea.
He'd get lost. He'd get really lost. They'd be sorry then alright.
They'd p'r'aps think he was dead and they'd be sorry then alright. He
imagined their relief, their tearful apologies when at last he
returned to the bosom of his family.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118