Still William by Richmal Crompton

out his pipe and taking a large penknife out of his pocket, ‘though it’s wastin’ me time ye are, as usual.’
    He took up a piece of wood and began to whittle.
    ‘How’s the squirrel, Bob?’
    ‘Foine.’
    ‘Bob, they’re building in the ivy on the Old Oak again.’
    ‘Shure an’ I knew that before you did, me bhoy.’
    But though he whittled and whistled Bob was evidently not his old self.
    ‘I say, Bob, next month—’
    ‘Next month, me bhoys, I shall not be here.’
    They stared at him open-mouthed.
    ‘What – you goin’ away for a holiday, Bob?’
    Bob whittled away nonchalantly.
    ‘I’m goin’ away, me bhoys, because th’ould devil up there has given me the sack – God forgive him for Oi won’t,’ he ended piously.
    ‘But – why ?’ they said, aghast.
    ‘He sez I don’t work. Me! ’ he said indignantly. ‘Me – an’ me wearin’ me hands to the bone for him the way I do. An’ he says I
steal ’is fruit – me what takes only the few peaches he’d come an’ give me with his own hands if he was a gintleman at all, at all.’
    ‘What a shame !’ said the Outlaws.
    ‘Turnin’ me an’ me hanimals out into the cold world. May God forgive him!’ said Bob. ‘Well, here’s yer boats, ye young rascals, an’ don’t ye go
near me pheasants’ nests or I’ll put the fear of God on ye.’
    ‘We’ve gotter do something,’ said William, when Bob had returned, smoking peacefully, to his Lodge.
    ‘ We can’t do anything,’ said Ginger despondently. ‘Who’d listen to us ? Who’d take any notice of us , anyway?’
    William the leader looked at him sternly.
    ‘You jus’ wait an’ see ,’ he said.
    Mr Bott was very stout. His stoutness was a great secret trouble to Mr Bott. Mr Bott had made his money and now Mr Bott wished to take his proper place in Society. Mr Bott
considered not unreasonably that his corpulency, though an excellent advertisement of the nourishing qualities of Bott’s Sauce, yet detracted from the refinement of his appearance. Mrs Bott
frequently urged him to ‘do something about it’. He had consulted many expensive specialists. Mrs Bott kept finding ‘new men’ for him. The last ‘new man’ she had
found was highly recommended on all sides. He practically guaranteed his treatment to transform a human balloon to a human pencil in a few months. Mr Bott had begun the treatment. It was irksome
but Mr Bott was persevering. Had Mr Bott not been persevering he would never have attained that position of eminence in the commercial world that he now held. Every morning as soon as it was light,
Mr Bott, decently covered by a large overcoat, went down to a small lake in the grounds among the bushes. There Mr Bott divested himself of his overcoat and appeared in small bathing drawers. From
the pocket of his overcoat Mr Bott would then take a skipping rope and with this he would skip five times round the lake. Then he would put away his skipping rope and do his exercises. He would
twist his short fat body into strange attitudes, flinging his short fat arms towards Heaven, standing upon one short fat leg with the other thrust out at various angles and invariably
overbalancing. Finally, Mr Bott had to plunge into the lake (it was not deep), splash and kick and run round in it, and then emerge to dry himself on a towel concealed in the other pocket of his
overcoat, shiveringly don the overcoat again and furtively return to the house. For Mr Bott was shy about his ‘treatment’. He fondly imagined that no one except Mrs Bott, the ‘new
man’ and himself knew about his early morning adventures.

    One chilly morning Mr Bott had skipped and leapt and twisted himself and splashed himself and emerged shivering and red-nosed for his overcoat. Then Mr Bott received a shock
that was nearly too much for his much exercised system. His overcoat was not there. He looked all round the tree where he knew he had left it, and it was not there. It was most certainly not