Alvin Fernald, Superweasel

by Clifford B. Hicks

  Instantly Superweasel’s pants — and his own, too — began falling. He grabbed them with one hand, holding onto the ladder and the rope in a death grip with the other. He clung there momentarily, trying to figure out what to do.

  The Magnificent Brain came through with its analysis, clearly, inevitably, step by step:

  “1. You can’t do your work and hold onto your pants at the same time. 2. It will be impossible for you to climb down the ladder while holding up your pants. 3. Therefore, both pairs of pants must go.”

  Having made this coldly analytical decision, the Magnificent Brain turned over the execution of the plan to Alvin. There was a reluctant pause. Then Alvin let go of his pants and wiggled his hips. His pants fell to his ankles. He reached down and freed one leg, then the other.

  The pants went sailing downward through the blackness. Alvin listened for what seemed a full minute.

  “Ooooooooofffff!” The exclamation wasn’t even a whisper, but a full-throated roar.

  Superweasel started laughing, almost hysterically. He knew what had happened. Shoie had been standing there, peering straight up at the top of the chimney. Suddenly a big black thing came swooping out of the night sky like some huge prehistoric bat, and caught him full in the face.

  Alvin’s case of the giggles made him feel better. He threaded the end of the rope through the pulley, then began feeding the end of the rope back down to the ground below. As the rope ran over the pulley, each turn of the wheel produced a screeching sound that seemed to go out across town as though it was broadcast from a loudspeaker.

  We’re sure to be caught, thought Alvin. We should have oiled the pulley. Well, I might as well go ahead with our plan. He pulled vigorously on the rope with his one free hand, feeding the end of it toward the ground.

  Finally the rope came to a stop. He knew what had happened. The loose end of the rope — the one that had been tied to his belt — had come snaking down out of the night sky. Now the rope ran from the ground, up over the pulley, and back down to the ground again. The Pest had grabbed both ends and held them, as a signal to Alvin that they were ready for the next step. Shoie now could tie materials to one end of the rope, haul on the other end, and the materials would rise up to Superweasel.

  The pulley began screeching under its load. Soon, rising majestically out of the blackness, the big black cylinder they had made out of a roll of roofing paper brushed Alvin’s jacket and came to rest against the pulley.

  Alvin, hanging on desperately with one hand, used the other to push the roll up and over the rim of the smokestack until it lay there on top. Then he pulled at the slipknot Shoie had tied in the rope, loosened the noose, and slipped it off the tar paper roll. He fed the rope back down toward the ground. Immediately the pulley began squeaking again.

  When the rope once more reached the ground, Alvin went to work on the roll of tar paper. He had trouble holding it on the rim of the chimney. Finally he grabbed the edge of it in his teeth. Then, taking a deep snort of air, he gave the roll a push. It disappeared across the top of the chimney as the paper unrolled. An instant later there was a tremendous tug on his jaws, and Alvin thought every one of his teeth would be pulled loose. He grabbed the end of the paper with his free hand.

  The heavy paper now was completely unrolled, and had sealed off the top of the chimney. It balanced there.

  At that moment he again felt something brush against his sleeve. The second load of supplies had climbed up to Superweasel. It consisted of two old pieces of lumber about four feet long and a cloth banner which had been carefully prepared and rolled up in the clubhouse the day before.

  Alvin waggled the boards across the rim until they lay atop the center of the chimney. He untied the rope. Then he slid one board to each side. Now the boards anchored the roofing paper to the chimney top. It would indeed take a strong wind to blow the paper away.

  The chimney was sealed. Perhaps it wasn’t airtight, but most of the smoke would back up into the foundry below. Superweasel’s work was done — except for one thing. He placed the end of the banner under one of the two boards, then let it unfurl down the side of the smokestack.

  Alvin gave the prearranged signal — two tugs on the rope. He waited for about thirty seconds, then pulled the rope back through the pulley and dropped it. He hoped Shoie and the Pest remembered to stand clear of the chimney. He was in too big a hurry to do anything about the pulley, which was an old one anyway. He simply left it where it was, hooked to the top of the ladder.

  Superweasel began his dangerous descent. He paused just once, about halfway down, but had enough sense to keep his eyes on the stars.

  Before long he was standing breathless between Shoie and the Pest.

  “Great work, old bean,” whispered Shoie, pounding him on the back.

  “Why did you take off your pants, Alvin?” asked the Pest.

  Alvin suddenly felt very tired. He wanted, more than anything else, to get home and into his own bed.

  “Tell you later,” he said.

  Shoie had just finished coiling the rope, and was stuffing it back into his knapsack, on top of Alvin’s two pairs of pants, when they heard the scuffle of footsteps on the concrete.

  “Run!” said Alvin.

  Shoie and the Pest ran one way, and Alvin ran the other. As he ran, he jerked the mask down over his face. He heard the footsteps pounding along behind him, gaining ground.

  “Wait!” called a voice urgently. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Alvin slowed, and so did the footsteps. There had been something familiar about the voice.

  “It’s me, Superweasel. Al Moser of the Daily Bugle. I just want to talk to you.”

  Alvin stopped running and waited there, puffing, in the moonlight.

  “How did you know I was here?” Alvin asked suspiciously.

  “Just had a hunch you might be. The foundry is the second biggest polluter in town, so I figured you’d appear here next. I’ve been out here until midnight every night for three nights, waiting for you.”

  “You mean you were watching all the time I was climbing the chimney, and — and —”

  “Yep. But I couldn’t see what you were doing up on top. I can guess though. By golly, Superweasel, I’ve got to hand it to you. You’d never find me climbing all the way to the top of that chimney in a million years. Did you succeed?”

  “Come around tomorrow morning when the first shift goes to work, and you’ll see plenty of excitement.”

  “Superweasel, tell me the truth. Did you do any damage inside the foundry?”

  Alvin shook his head. “No damage. I promised you that. Remember?”

  There was a long pause. Then Moser said in a low voice, “Am I right? Did you plug the top of the smokestack?”

  “Yes.” Alvin said it in his own voice, proudly.

  Moser shook his head admiringly. He lifted an arm as though in salute, but it was the arm that held his camera.

  “What happened to your pants, Superweasel?” Moser asked softly.

  Superweasel was looking down at his skinny legs just as the flashbulb went off.

  Chapter 10

  Superhero of the Town

  “SUPERWEASEL STRIKES AGAIN!” shouted the banner headline in the Daily Bugle.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Alvin. “Look at that!”

  The three kids were inside the clubhouse. Alvin was sitting on an orange crate, and Shoie and the Pest were seated side by side on the dirt floor. Alvin had paid his own money for the paper (he wanted the clippings for his scrapbook so everybody could look them over when he became president). He spread the paper across an old packing box that served as a table.

  “Look at those pictures!” he said.

  The other two climbed to their feet and leaned over his shoulder.

  The largest photo on the front page showed workers scrambling to escape through the front door of the foundry. Behind them rolled a tremendous cloud of dirty black smoke.

  Another photo, smaller and toward the bottom
of the page, showed a man climbing up the smokestack.

  He was almost at the top, and he obviously had been assigned the job of removing the tar paper cover. Just above his head was the banner that Alvin had draped down from the chimney top. In huge letters it said exactly the same thing as the headline: “Superweasel Strikes Again!”

  As Alvin turned the page, the Pest let out a squeal of laughter. Shoie fell to the floor and rolled around helplessly in the dust.

  There, toward the bottom of the second page, was another photo, this one of Super-weasel. His mask was in place, his cape was flowing grandly down his back, and the letters across his chest stood out in bold relief. But he wasn’t wearing any pants.

  “Okay, you guys,” thundered Alvin, his face crimson. “Okay. That’s enough. I didn’t see either of you climbing that chimney last night.”

  With great effort Shoie and the Pest controlled their laughter. When the clubhouse was quiet again (except for an occasional eruption of the giggles from the Pest) Alvin began reading the article bylined by Mr. Moser:

  Superweasel — that mysterious caped crusader — struck again last night in his continuing battle against the polluters of Riverton.

  The pollution fighter managed to climb unseen to the top of the smokestack at the Blaha Foundry, haul up the necessary supplies, and plug the smokestack so the smoke backed up inside the building below.

  The foundry has long been the subject of complaints by Riverton citizens.

  This reporter interviewed Merle J. Blaha, the owner, at the foundry this morning. Blaha expressed bitterness against the “criminal” who had plugged his smokestack. When asked about installation of antipollution equipment Blaha said, “It’s a matter of principle. No criminal can tell me how to run my foundry.”

  Despite his emphatic statement, a truck delivered antipollution equipment to the foundry this morning. Workers immediately began installing it.

  It is apparent that Superweasel again has succeeded in his battle against pollution, this time where city officials have failed more than once.

  “Hey,” shouted Shoie, “we won the fight!”

  “Of course we did,” said Alvin calmly. “Superweasel always wins.”

  “Look!” said the Pest. “It says: ‘See the Superweasel editorial on page 5.’”

  Alvin eagerly flipped the pages of the paper. The editorial was short and to the point.

  The Daily Bugle can find no fault in what Superweasel has been doing in this community. No one has been hurt, and no property has been damaged. On the other hand, whenever Superweasel has set his sights on a polluter, his actions have been effective.

  The water pollution level in the Weasel River has been drastically reduced, and there is hope that fish and other forms of wildlife soon will reappear in the stream and along its banks.

  Last night’s daring action by Superweasel has dramatically reduced the air pollution over Riverton. Superweasel is as effective as those other legendary crime fighters: Superman, Batman and Spiderman.

  As long as Riverton’s crimefighter does not resort to vandalism, his work will have, not just the approval, but the enthusiastic endorsement of the Daily Bugle.

  Superweasel is making Riverton a better town for every resident. A citizen might well ask, as they did of the Lone Ranger, “Who was that masked man? I wanted to thank him.”

  Who is Superweasel? No one knows who he is — but our thoughts and our hopes go with him.

  Shoie gave a long low whistle. “Makes you feel like some kind of a hero, doesn’t it?”

  “Except that we’re not getting any of the credit,” replied Alvin.

  “There’s no need for any more secrecy,” suggested Shoie. “Tomorrow let’s tell Miss Miles and all the kids in class that we are Superweasel, and that we’ve been doing this as our antipollution project. Why, we’ll be heroes of the whole school, even superheroes of the whole town.”

  Alvin considered the idea. He had to admit that it appealed to him. One of his weaknesses was that he liked to be the center of attention. And he certainly would get a lot of attention if he announced that he was the mighty pollution fighter.

  But something deep inside made him reluctant to expose Superweasel’s identity just yet.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that Superweasel should strike out against one other kind of pollution before he hangs up his mask and cape for good.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then the Pest asked, “What other kind of pollution is there, Alvin?”

  “Yeah,” said Shoie, puzzled. “Superweasel has fought air pollution and water pollution. What else can he do?”

  “Plenty,” said Alvin quietly. “But let’s not rush into anything. Let’s plan something really big, something that will change the whole town, something that will make people remember Superweasel for years to come. I have an idea or two, but I want to feed them through the old M.B. and see what comes out.”

  “Tell us,” begged the Post.

  “No. Not yet. But let’s meet again tomorrow afternoon. Maybe we can start planning Superweasel’s greatest adventure of all.”

  Chapter 11

  Superweasel is a Bum

  But the next day something went wrong.

  Very, very wrong.

  Instead of superheroes, the kids found themselves superbums. The Daily Bugle carried a different headline:

  SUPERWEASEL VANDALIZES

  DOWNTOWN STORES

  The article, bylined by Mr. Moser, stated that two store windows had been broken with bricks the night before, and that Superweasel had scrawled his name in spray paint across each of the stores. Furthermore, a masked and costumed figure had been seen fleeing down an alley near the scene of the crimes.

  The seriousness of the situation startled Alvin. The Magnificent Brain boggled at the thought of what had happened. “Boy, are we in trouble!” he exclaimed when the three kids met in the tree house.

  “Who could have done it?” asked Shoie.

  “I dunno.” There was a long pause. Then Alvin asked, in a voice as natural as he could make it, “What were you doing last night, Shoie?”

  “I studied. Watched TV. Went to bed early. I was tired. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “How about you?” Was there a touch of suspicion in Shoie’s voice? “Where were you last night?”

  “Same as you.”

  The two boys stared at each other.

  “The Superweasel costume is in the clubhouse,” stated Alvin. “In your backyard.”

  “That costume is too small for me. You’re the only one it fits.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Hey, you guys!” The Pest’s high little voice cut into them accusingly. “What’s the matter with you — both of you? When the least little thing goes wrong, you guys start blaming each other.” She paused, then said indignantly, “We all know that nobody here would do it — would even want to do it. So it has to be somebody else. Snap out of it, you guys.”

  Alvin and Shoie looked at each other. They both started grinning sheepishly. Alvin held out his fist, thumb sticking up, and Shoie grabbed it. Simultaneously all three kids intoned, “Power to Superweasel!”

  “Okay,” said Alvin. “So we know nobody here did it. But that doesn’t solve our basic problem. Let’s analyze the situation scientifically. First, we know that somebody else impersonated Superweasel. Second, that person performed criminal acts—broke windows and sprayed paint on private property.” He paused, thinking.

  “What comes third, Alvin?” asked his sister.

  “Well, third is mighty serious. Has it occurred to either of you that now we’ll be in very deep trouble if we let people know we are Superweasel?”

  “You’re right,” said Shoie.

  “We might even end up in jail.” The Pest spoke in a small, frightened voice.

  “Mr. Moser isn’t going to like Superweasel after this.” Shoie was thinking out loud.

  “No. And if we get any more publicity, it will
be exactly the wrong kind.”

  “The police will be trying to capture Superweasel,” whispered the Pest. “Even Daddy will be trying to find us. Oh, Alvin what can we do?”

  Silence again. Finally Alvin declared forcefully, “There’s only one thing we can do. We can forget about the guy who’s doing the damage. We won’t waste even one second of our time on that criminal. Instead, we’ll plan the biggest antipollution drive that’s ever been seen anywhere on the face of the earth. And Superweasel will supervise the whole thing. When everyone sees how much good he is doing, they’ll know he couldn’t have broken those windows.”

  “What’s this plan of yours, old bean?” Shoie said, his spirits rising.

  “First of all, we know a lot of kids around town. Agreed?”

  “Sure. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Do you think, among the three of us, that we know at least one kid in all four other grade schools? A kid we really can trust?”

  Shoie and the Pest thought for a moment. “I think so,” said Shoie. “Why?”

  “We’re going to organize every fourth, fifth and sixth grader in town. That’s hundreds and hundreds of kids. And maybe, on the big day, other kids will join those kids. We’re going to organize the kids without a single adult knowing anything about it. Just the kids, all over town, doing their thing for their environment. And supervising the whole operation will be — Superweasel! Why, the whole state, maybe even the whole country, will take notice. Why, why —” when the Magnificent Brain started rolling, it frequently went completely out of control, “— why, I wouldn’t even be surprised if the president himself hears about Superweasel. Maybe we’ll even get medals and things!”

  The Pest’s eyes were shining. “Oh, Alvin! Tell us what you want us to do!”