“Don’t judge them all by yourself, Master William,” said cook unkindly, keeping a watchful eye upon him.  “Here, Emma, put that rice-mould away in the pantry.  It’s for to-morrow’s lunch.”

Rice-mould!  That reminded him.

“Cook,” he said ingratiatingly, “are you going to make cream blanc-mange?”

“I am not, Master William,” she said firmly.

“Well,” he said, with a short laugh, “it’ll be a queer party without cream blanc-mange!  I’ve never heard of a party without cream blanc-mange!  They’ll think it’s a bit funny.  No one ever gives a party round here without cream blanc-mange!”

“Don’t they indeed, Master William,” said cook, with ironic interest.

“No.  You’ll be making one, p’raps, later on—­just a little one, won’t you?”

“And why should I?”

“Well, I’d like to think they had a cream blanc-mange.  I think they’d enjoy it.  That’s all I’m thinking of.”

“Oh, is it?  Well, it’s your ma that tells me what to make and pays me for it, not you.”

This was a novel idea to William.

He thought deeply.

“Look here!” he said at last, “if I gave you,”—­he paused for effect, then brought out the startling offer—­“sixpence, would you make a cream blanc-mange?”

“I’d want to see your sixpence first,” said cook, with a wink at Emma.

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. Make him go to bed early! He’d like to see them!  He’d just like to see them!  And he’d show them, anyway.  Yes, he would show them.  Exactly what he would show them and how he would show them, he was not as yet very clear.  He looked round the room again.  There were no eatables in it so far except the piled-up plate of huge pears on the sideboard.