by Matthew Ward
“Fanks, guv. You done so much for me already, just letting me come work for you lot. Honestly, there’s nobody in this world I’d ravver cook for.”
“And there’s nobody we’d rather have cook for us.”
Sammy smiled, then—catching Arthur’s gaze for a split second—returned to his serving cart.
Arthur sighed. He had not realized before how badly his personal plan to fix Sammy’s money troubles had hinged on his father’s contributions. The only other donor he had secured was one of rather modest means. He would have to rethink his strategy.
As Arthur racked his brain for new ideas to help Sammy, Mrs. Waite appeared at his father’s back, holding little Ivy in one arm and a three-inch-thick newspaper in the other.
“Paper, sir?” offered the housekeeper.
“Oh, yes—thank you, Mrs. Waite,” Mr. Whipple replied, taking the hefty newspaper and unfurling it before him. “A little light reading might do me some good at the moment.”
The front page of The World Record (the Most Circulated Newspaper on Earth) was scattered with record-breaking headlines from across the globe, including: SOVIET BEAR “BORIS” BECOMES FIRST ANIMAL IN SPACE—BEATING AMERICAN EAGLE “KEITH” BY LESS THAN FOUR MINUTES; and LARGEST EVER EXPEDITION TO SOUTH POLE VIA ICE CREAM VAN ARRIVES ON SCHEDULE; and FIRST NUCLEAR POWER PLANT HAS FIRST NUCLEAR REACTOR LEAK.
What Arthur’s father failed to notice, however, was the tiny picture of a certain smiling man in the paper’s lower half.
Mrs. Waite hesitated a moment before turning to carry Ivy and her matching toy bear off for their post-breakfast activities—but then turned back to Mr. Whipple. “Pardon my asking, sir,” she said, pointing to the thumbnail photo at the bottom corner of the paper, “but who’s this fellow on the front page here? Says he’s returning to the world-record-breaking scene after nearly two decades—like it’s meant to be news. But I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. What’s his name—Rex Goldwin, is it?”
Mr. Whipple gave a violent cough as he nearly choked on his last bite of French toast. Even from across the table, Arthur could see the color drain from his father’s face.
“Sir?” said the housekeeper. “Are you quite all right? Why, you don’t look well at all. I hope I’ve not done anything to upset you.”
Arthur’s father swallowed hard, pounded twice on his chest, and shook his head. “No,” he wheezed, “not at all, Mrs. Waite.”
Mrs. Whipple gave a concerned look to her husband. “What ever is the matter, dear?” she said.
“Nothing,” the man replied gruffly. “It’s just—it’s…nothing.” He crumpled the newspaper shut and rose from his chair. “Excuse me.” And with that, he turned and strode off toward the house.
His family looked on in puzzlement.
“Dad really ought to have that indigestion checked out,” said Cordelia. “If he’d ever make an appointment, I’d be happy to diagnose him.”
“Well,” said Arthur’s mother some moments later, “it was a bit of an odd exit, but I believe your father has the right idea. We’ve all got a busy day ahead of us if we’re to make the eligibility requirement for the championships by our birthday, so let’s get a move on, shall we? Simon, Arthur, Beatrice—you may finish your breakfast; everybody else—you are excused. Mrs. Waite,” she added, rising from the table and turning to the housekeeper, “you may fetch Mr. Mahankali for leftovers distribution.”
As usual, there was a sizable amount of food remaining, and the Whipples saw to it that nothing went to waste. As a matter of procedure, they donated half of every uneaten meal to a nearby orphanage, to help feed those less fortunate than themselves (and to secure the record for Most Food Donated to a Charitable Organization by a Single Donor)—while saving the other half to feed the Whipple animals.
Mr. Mahankali, who trained and cared for the animals in the Whipple family menagerie, arrived promptly at the table on the back of Shiva, the World’s Largest Indian Elephant. It was a common mode of transportation for him, but visitors to the Whipple estate seldom remembered the enormous beast he rode on. They were too busy staring at the rider himself.
At first glance, it was unclear whether he was the animal caretaker—or actually one of the animals. On closer inspection, it became apparent he was in fact humanoid, but every inch of his face was covered with long, dark, silver-streaked hair—which was parted in the middle and pulled back into a bow. Owing partly to the three-piece, pin-striped suit he wore and partly to his large, dark, twinkling eyes, he looked at once savage—and completely civilized. He was Phoolendu Mahankali, the legendary “Panther-Man of Pandharpur” and Hairiest Man Alive.
Mr. Mahankali dismounted his elephantine steed and exchanged greetings with Sammy the Spatula as the two prepared for the important task of leftovers distribution. Those who had finished eating had already gone back into the house to prepare for that day’s various record attempts—except for Abigail, who had been going through a sort of wild-animal withdrawal ever since returning from her semester abroad with the wolves, and naturally wanted to ride on the elephant. She politely asked permission from the beast’s caretaker, who smiled and said, “Of course, my child,” then picked her up and hoisted her onto Shiva’s back.
The Panther-Man then retrieved a long, wooden-handled length of wire from the elephant’s saddlebag and gave one of the handles to Sammy.
Positioning themselves at opposite sides of the table, the two men pulled the wire taut, then brought it down like a giant cheese slicer to cut the French toast into two triangular halves. With a set of handheld meathooks, they promptly grabbed the farther of the two halves and slid it off the table, onto the broad trailer cart that was harnessed to the elephant.
“Thank you most kindly, Mr. Sammy,” said the Panther-Man. “The animals will be most pleased to have a breakfast so delectable.”
“No trouble at all,” smiled the chef. “You know, Mahankali—it’s a long way back to them animals, innit? Hate to see you starve to deff before you make it to the uvver side of the estate. Guess you’ll just ’ave to stop and ’ave a bite yourself, eh?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Sammy,” cried the animal caretaker, “I could not possibly!”
Sammy waved the sweet aroma to his nostrils, shut his eyes, and inhaled dramatically. “Very well,” he smirked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you then.”
A mischievous smile broke through Mr. Mahankali’s genteel expression. “Okay,” he whispered. “Maybe just a little bite.”
Smiling to Arthur and the other children, he walked to the elephant’s side, signaled to Abigail, who shouted, “Chaloˉ!”—which is Hindi for “Let’s go!”—and in an instant, they were off—the little girl riding on top of the elephant, the Panther-Man walking alongside, and half of the World’s Largest Piece of French Toast trailing behind them, on its way to feed Mr. Mahankali’s beastly dependents.
When Sammy had packed up his serving cart, he turned toward the table and said, “Right, you kids. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast…. Oh—Arfur—may I speak to you a minute?”
Arthur, startled by the request, looked to Simon—who shrugged at him behind his accordion. “Of course, Sammy,” Arthur replied dubiously. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then hopped over to where the chef stood.
As soon as Arthur had arrived there, Sammy retrieved a sack of coins the size of a coconut and dropped it into the boy’s hands. “Fanks for this, mate,” he said. “But I can’t take your money.”
Arthur lowered his shoulders and gave a sheepish grin. It seemed his “donor of modest means” had been discovered. “How did you know it was me?” he said.
“After I found this sack in the kitchen wiv me name on it, I found this in a nearby dustbin.” Sammy held up a pink ceramic shard, on which the lower half of the word “Arthur” was clearly visible. “This were the piggy bank you were using for your Largest Coin Collection attempt, weren’t it?”
Arthur nodded.
“You really shouldn’t have, mate. I’
ve caused me own troubles, and it’s me who’s got to fix them.”
“But Sammy, what will you do?”
“Don’t worry ’bout old Sammy, mate. I’ll find some way to make everyfing work out.” The chef gave a warm smile. “Right then,” he said, mussing the boy’s hair. “Get back to your breakfast before it’s completely cold…. See you at two for knife-block stocking practice?”
“Yes, sir,” Arthur smiled over his shoulder as he hopped back to the table, coins clinking with every bounce. “See you then, Sammy.”
“Very good,” the chef grinned. “Got some new knife-grip techniques to show you. We’ll get you a trophy yet, we will.”
With a cheerful wink, Sammy then turned and headed back to the house to begin work on his next colossal culinary masterpiece, otherwise known as “lunch,” leaving Arthur, Simon, and Beatrice alone at the table.
It was then, of course, that the horrible thing happened.
Now into the final stretch of her competitive-eating training session, Beatrice had begun “sprinting” to shovel as much food into her mouth as she could before exceeding her half-hour time limit. She was standing at the right-angled corner of the now triangular piece of French toast—which hung well over the edge of the circular table—while the two boys were positioned about fifteen feet to her left at another of the corners.
As Arthur cut off his next bite, he felt the table wobble slightly and noticed the entire piece of French toast shift to one side.
That’s odd, he thought. I’d better mention this to Beatrice so she doesn’t…
But it was too late.
As Beatrice took one last lunge at her breakfast, the nearby table legs buckled beneath its weight, tipping the table toward her and setting the unstable piece of battered bread in motion.
Arthur and Simon watched in horror as the massive breakfast food slid toward their sister on a river of syrup and butter. As its corner hit the ground, the perilous piece of French toast flipped over and began to fall face down—directly on top of Beatrice.
For a split second, it loomed over her like a tidal wave—and then, she was gone. The little girl with the huge appetite vanished beneath a hulking mass of bread and egg and butter and syrup.
Arthur could not believe what he had just seen. He turned to his older brother for guidance, but found Simon with his mouth wide open and a look of terror on his face.
Being two years younger than Simon, Arthur had expected his brother to lead any sort of rescue effort they might have launched, but he now saw a tragic conflict in Simon’s eyes. Simon glanced down at his accordion—then back up at Arthur with a desperate gaze.
Arthur knew instantly what he had to do.
His brother had been playing that accordion for six days straight, which was no easy task. If Simon were to stop playing it now, all of his hard work would have been for nothing.
It was up to Arthur to save their sister.
Sure, he was in the middle of his own record attempt—for the Longest Time Hopping on One Foot—but who was he kidding? He was never going to actually break it—and everyone knew it. He had never broken any of the records he had attempted. Indeed, with such a history of incompetence, he didn’t see how he could possibly help his sister, but there was no time to find someone better suited to the task.
Arthur planted both feet on the ground and ran to the place where his little sister had once stood, his brother following just behind him.
While Simon played a suspenseful piece of music on his accordion, Arthur dug his fingers into the edge of the bread and lifted with all his might. When he had raised the French toast to waist-level, he rested it on his thigh and grabbed a nearby chair. Tipping the chair onto its front side, he forced it underneath the slab of dough, creating a small crevice between the bread and the ground. He then dropped to his stomach and thrust his way head-first inside.
With every inch forward, he drove the chair nearer to the French toast’s center, deepening his crawl space as it advanced.
The doughy mass pressed down about him on all sides. But just when it seemed he could go no further, Arthur felt a set of tiny fingers—and grasped hold of them.
If Beatrice had been unconscious, she quickly snapped to when she felt her brother’s touch—and was soon wriggling toward him as he pulled her out through the makeshift tunnel.
As Simon’s tense accordion tune reached an unbearable peak, Arthur emerged from underneath the rogue piece of French toast, still clutching his sister’s arms. He gave one last tug, and Beatrice’s head finally appeared, dripping with maple syrup and butter.
Her first gasp of syrup-free air was shortly followed by coughing and spluttering, as she cleared her throat of the sticky sludge that had nearly claimed her life.
By this time, the other Whipples had noticed the commotion and come running to Arthur’s aid.
Dashing onto the scene, Mr. Whipple scooped up his daughter and wiped the goo from her nose and mouth. Slowly, Beatrice opened her eyes, and everybody breathed a sigh of relief.
“It was Arthur!” Simon exclaimed. “Not only did he save Beatrice’s life—he saved my world record as well!”
Mrs. Whipple hugged Arthur and kissed him on the forehead, drenching her clothes with syrup in the process.
Simon played a hero’s theme on his accordion, while other family members showed Arthur their gratitude with hugs and handshakes and pats on the head.
“Nicely done, Brother!” cried Henry. “A few seconds quicker and you might’ve set a breakfast rescue record!”
“Yeah, Arthur,” Cordelia nodded. “Though your form may have left a little to be desired, your use of available structures was completely exceptional!”
Their father, however, looked rather disconcerted. “How did this happen?” he said.
“The table legs just collapsed,” said Simon. “One moment they were fine—and the next, bang! Beatrice never had a chance.”
“Goodness,” their mother sighed. “The safety advocates will have a field day with this once the report is published. I’ve had to cancel our last two table-leg inspections due to our hectic schedule. But at least everybody is all right.”
Standing between Arthur and his mother, Mr. Whipple clutched his brow and shook his head.
“What a morning this has been,” Arthur heard him mutter. “First, I discover he’s returning—on the twentieth Rueing Day, no less—and now, this. It’s almost as if…Oh, God,” Mr. Whipple gasped. “It’s happening all over again, isn’t it? The Lyon’s Curse—it’s, it’s finally come for us….”
“Please, dear,” Arthur’s mother whispered to her husband, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Really, I don’t know why you should be so upset by news of some second-rate record-breaker, and this breakfast business, well—nothing more than a minor mishap in the end, was it? We’re all still alive, aren’t we? So, clearly, it’s not anything like the curse…. Now, try to pull yourself together, dear—and go commend your son.”
Mr. Whipple slowly exhaled, then straightened his shirt. “Yes,” he nodded. “Of course, dear. You are no doubt right. Do forgive me. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’m simply not myself this morning.”
He stepped forward and offered his hand to his recordless son, then cleared his throat.
“Well done, Arthur,” he smiled, the usual confidence returning to his voice. “By saving your sister’s life, you have allowed her the opportunity to continue training for the competitive eating season and the chance to add more trophies to the Whipple Hall of Records. And that, my boy, is the greatest gift of all.
“Now,” he added. “About your own record attempts: I see you are no longer hopping on one foot. I believe that makes two records in one day you have failed to break. Surely you’ll never help us close our critical record gap like this. But don’t worry, Son. In honor of your bravery, I shall schedule an extended one-on-one training session for the two of us to discuss your mistakes and analyze the choices which ultimately led to your downfall!�
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Mr. Whipple ended in a tone that made it seem he had just offered his son a shopping spree to a sweet shop, when he had really only offered him a lecture on his inadequacies.
With syrup dripping off his nose, Arthur simply smiled.
Little did he know, the darkest era in the history of his family had just begun—with one oversized piece of French toast.
THE SPECTER SPECTACLE
Arthur sat in a chair made entirely of wooden matchsticks. Mounted on the wall behind him, the head of the World’s Smallest Moose peered over his left shoulder, while the World’s Largest Mouse gazed over his right. The two heads were roughly the same size, which would have been rather disconcerting had they been hanging anywhere else but in the Whipple household.
Mr. Whipple stood at an easel, studying an elaborately detailed line graph that charted his son’s “failure quotient” for the current calendar year.
This figure was determined by dividing the number of target units in a given world record attempt by the number of actual units achieved. For example, if Arthur needed to crush forty-four raw eggs with his elbow to break the record for Most Raw Eggs Crushed with Elbow in Fifteen Seconds, but he only managed to crush eleven raw eggs, he would be given a failure quotient of four (because of course, forty-four divided by eleven equals four). For timed events, the formula was reversed, and Arthur’s failure quotient was determined by dividing his actual time by the target time. For example, if Arthur needed to complete a five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle in 136 minutes to break the record for Fastest Time to Complete a Five-Hundred-Piece Jigsaw Puzzle While Blindfolded, but it ended up taking him 408 minutes, he would be given a failure quotient of three (408 ÷ 136 = 3). The higher the number, the bigger the failure.
Lately, Arthur’s failure quotients were at an all-time high. Holding a pointer up to the graph, Mr. Whipple looked befuddled. “Now, Son. I’m not entirely sure how you’ve managed to raise your figures past the already startling levels at which they typically reside, but now you’ll have to try even harder if you ever want to get a plaque on that wall.”
