The Bishop’s Handkerchief
Until now William had taken no interest in his handkerchiefs as toilet
accessories. They were greyish (once white) squares useful for blotting ink or
carrying frogs or making lifelike rats to divert the long hours of afternoon
school, but otherwise he had had no pride or interest in them.
But last week, Ginger (a member of the circle known to themselves as the
Outlaws of which William was the leader) had received a handkerchief as a
birthday present from an aunt in London. William, on hearing the news, had
jeered, but the sight of the handkerchief had silenced him.
It was a large handkerchief, larger than William had conceived it possible for
handkerchiefs to be. It was made of silk, and contained all the colours of the
rainbow. Round the edge green dragons sported upon a red ground. Ginger
displayed it at first deprecatingly, fully prepared for scorn and merriment, and for
some moments, the fate of the handkerchief hung in the balance. But there was
something about the handkerchief that impressed them.
“Kinder—funny,” said Henry critically.
“Jolly big, isn’t it?” said Douglas uncertainly.
“’S more like a sheet,” said William, wavering between scorn and
admiration