The Slowcoach Part 11

Robert looked at it, and threw it down.

"Very offensive," he said.

Mrs. Avory handed it to Janet.

"Whoever can it be from?" Janet asked, turning it over and over. "The postmark is Chiswick."

"A good way to find out," said Gregory, "is to open it."

Janet did so, and read it, laughing. "It's an attempt at a nasty letter from William," she said. "He's pretending to be cross because Jack won.

Poor William! Listen:

DEAR LITTLE ONES,

"I hope you are having a good time in that stuffy caravan, and manage to avoid blisters. I thought you would like to hear that father has given me leave to go to Sheppey, and stay for three days with Mr.

Fowler, who has promised to take me up in an aeroplane. I am also to have riding-lessons, and Aunt Mildred has promised me a pony, being so sorry to hear that I was done out of the caravan trip by a fluke. Uncle Jim has sent me 5 pounds. According to the papers the weather is going to break up directly. Your affectionate and prosperous friend,

WILLIAM ROTHERAM.

Jack was speechless with fury. "The story-teller!" he cried.

But Mary laughed. "I think it's rather clever," she said. "It almost took me in."

"Do you mean to say it's a good joke?" Jack asked.

"I think so," said Mary.

"I don't," said Jack. "I think jokes ought to be straightforward. I think you ought to know exactly that they are jokes."

"Miss Bingham," said Robert, "would say that such inventions were in poor taste."

"So they are," said Jack.

"Poor William!" said Mrs. Avory. "You oughtn't to be cross with him, Jack. After all, he did lose when you tossed up."

"Yes," said Jack. "But, look here, Mrs. Avory, suppose some of it's true."

At this they all roared, for it showed what Jack's trouble really was.

"Oh, Jack," said his sister, "you mustn't want everything. Even if it were true, you ought to be much happier here."

"Have some more coffee, Jack," Mrs. Avory said quickly.

As it was Sunday, they went to Trinity Church (which usually costs sixpence to enter, because of Shakespeare's tomb--a charge of which I am sure the poet would not approve). As the words in the sermon grew longer and longer, Hester made renewed efforts to get a glimpse of the tomb, but it was in a part of the chancel that was not within sight.

She had instead to study the windows, which she always liked to do in church; and she found herself repeating the lines on the tomb, which she had long known:

"Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust enclosed heare: Bleste be ye man Yt spares these stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones."

On Sunday, even after service, the church was not on view, but the next day it was there that they hurried directly after breakfast, Hester carrying with her some little bunches of flowers. They paid their sixpences, and made straight for Shakespeare's tomb, and stood before the coloured bust--that bust which you see in reproduction at every turn in this loyal town. It is perhaps more interesting than impressive, and the children had a serious argument over it, Jack even daring to say that the face was stupid-looking, and Gregory declining almost petulantly to consider Shakespeare in the least like a swan.

Poor Hester, how to defend him against these horrid boys!

Janet came to the rescue by saying that Jack was probably thinking that the forehead was too high; but a high forehead was a sign of genius.

"It may be so," said Jack, "but father has a poor patient with water on the brain just like that." (What can you do with people, who talk in this way?)

"But, of course," said Horace, "it doesn't matter what he looked like really, because he didn't write the plays at all. They were written by Roger Bacon."

This led to acute trouble.

"How can you say such wicked things!" Hester protested, bursting into tears.

"But I read it in a book," said Horace, who had not wished to hurt her, but still desired to serve the truth. "It was sent to father."

"Everything in books isn't true," said Janet.

"Oh, I say!" said Horace.

"Of course it's not," said Mary. "Books are always being replied to and squashed."

"Well, this book was by a Member of Parliament," said Horace.

This was very awkward for the defenders of Shakespeare. What were they to do?

Gregory, who had not seemed to be interested in the debate, settled it.

He walked up to an old man who was standing near them, and asked him.

"It isn't true," he said, "is it, that Shakespeare's works were written by Bacon?"

"No," said the old man, "it's a wicked falsehood."

"How do you know?" asked Horace.

"How do I know!" exclaimed the old man. "Why, I've lived at Stratford, man and boy, seventy years, and of course I know."

"Of course," said Janet.

"But a Member of Parliament says it was Bacon," Horace persisted.

"What's he Member for?" the old man asked. "Eh? Not for Stratford-on-Avon, I'll be bound."

"I don't know," said Horace, who had nothing else to say.

"Take my advice," the old man replied, "and don't believe anyone who says that Shakespeare wanted help. Look at that brow!"

"But he isn't like a swan, is he?" Gregory asked.