William the Fourth Read Online Free

was a familiar figure on that road himself, also comfortably jerseyed and gloriously dirty. He would then have greeted
them with a war-whoop and a friendly punch. But now he was an outcast, a pariah, a thing apart – a boy in his best clothes and kid gloves on an ordinary morning.
    The photographer was awaiting them. William returned his smile of welcome with a scowl.
    ‘So this is our little friend?’ said the photographer. ‘And what is his name?’
    William grew purple.
    Ethel began to enjoy it.
    ‘Willie,’ she said.
    Now, there were many insults that William had learned to endure with outward equanimity, but this was not one. Ethel knew perfectly well his feeling with regard to the name ‘Willie’.
It was a deliberate revenge because she had to waste a whole morning on him. Moreover, Ethel had various scores to wipe off against William, and it was not often that she had him entirely at her
mercy
    William growled. That is the only word that describes the sound emitted.
    ‘Pretty name for a pretty boy’ commented the photographer in sprightly vein.
    Ethel and Blanche gurgled. William, dark and scowling, looked unspeakable things at them.
    ‘Come forward,’ said the photographer invitingly. ‘Any preparations? Fancy dress?’
    ‘I think not,’ gurgled Ethel.
    ‘I have some nice costumes,’ he persisted. ‘A little page? Bubbles? But perhaps the hair is hardly suitable. Cupid? I have some pretty wings and drapery. But perhaps the little
boy’s expression is hardly— No, I think not,’ hastily, as he encountered the fixed intensity of William’s scowling gaze. ‘Remove the cap and gloves, my little
chap.’
    He looked up and down William’s shining, immaculate person. Ah, very nice.’
    He waved Ethel and Blanche to a seat.
    ‘Now, my boy—’
    He waved the infuriated William to a rustic woodland scene at the other end.
    ‘Now, stand just here. That’s right. No, not quite so stiff – and – no, not quite so hunched up, my little chap . . . the hands resting carelessly . . . one on the hip, I
think . . . just easy and natural . . . that’s right . . . but no, hardly Relax the brow a little. And – ah, no . . . not a grimace . . . it would spoil a pretty picture . . .
the feet so . . . and the head so . . . the hair is slightly deranged . . . that’s better.’
    Let it stand to William’s eternal credit that he resisted the temptation to bite the photographer’s hand as it strayed among his short locks. At last he was posed and the
photographer returned to the camera, but during his return William moved feet, hands, and head to an easier position. The photographer sighed.
    ‘Ah, he’s moved. William’s moved. What a pity! We’ll have to begin all over again.’
    He returned to William, and very patiently he rearranged William’s feet and hands and head.
    ‘The toes turned out – not in, you see, Willie, and the hands so, and the head slightly on one side . . . so, no, not right down on to the shoulder . . . ah,
that’s right . . . that’s sweet, a very pretty picture.’
    Ethel had retired hysterically behind a screen.
    The photographer returned to his camera. William promptly composed his limbs more comfortably
    ‘Ah, what a pity! Willie’s moved again. We shall have to commence afresh.’
    He returned to William and again put his unwilling head on one side, his hand upon his hip, and turned William’s stout boots at a graceful angle.
    He returned. William was clinging doggedly to his pose. Anything to put an end to this torture.
    Ah, right,’ commented the photographer. ‘Splendid! Ve-ery pretty. The head just a lee-eetle more on one side. The expression a lee-eetle less – melancholy. A smile, please
– just a lee-eetle smile. Ah, no,’ hastily, as William savagely bared his teeth, ‘perhaps it is better without the smile.’ Suppressed gurgles came from behind the screen
where Ethel clung helplessly to Blanche. ‘One more, please. Sitting, I think, this time.