Alvin Fernald, Superweasel

by Clifford B. Hicks

  “We’ve got to get organized,” said Alvin loftily, “that’s the secret of the whole thing. First we’ll draw up a list of names, so we can contact one kid in each of the schools. Then we’ll write a letter to each of those kids. Let’s see, now. We’d better make our big day a week from this Saturday. Meanwhile as far as the adults in town will know, Superweasel will be out of action.”

  Chapter 12

  Double Trouble

  But to Alvin’s horror, Superweasel wasn’t out of action. He continued his spree of vandalism.

  Damage was reported in the paper almost every night; and each time, the name Superweasel was scrawled across the vandalized property. One night, two tires were slashed; another night a statue was overturned in the park; on two successive nights garbage was strewn across cars, porches and public buildings.

  By now the citizens of Riverton were downright angry. “That Superweasel guy better not come around here,” growled Mr. Otto, the butcher, “or I’ll grind him into hamburger.”

  Many residents began to leave their porch lights on all night, and installed extra locks on their doors. The Police Department was swamped with calls from hysterical people who imagined they saw masked animal-figures everywhere. Alvin’s dad had to work extra hours each day so police patrols could be extended.

  “For the first time in my life,” Alvin said to Shoie, a week after the first appearance of the impostor. “I feel totally helpless. If we announce that we are Superweasel, then everybody will blame us for all the damage that’s been done. And if we don’t say anything about it, then whoever is pretending to be Superweasel will go right on doing more and more damage.”

  The kids again were in Alvin’s room. The Pest was sitting primly at the desk, trying to write letters and listen at the same time. They had decided that, because her handwriting was by far the neatest, she should write the letters seeking help from kids in other schools. Alvin had already written a rough letter for her to copy.

  “Alvin, maybe we should cancel our plans for one more Superweasel adventure,” suggested Shoie. “You’ve heard what’s happening. Everybody in town is complaining, and everybody’s suspicious of everybody else. Instead of doing good, Superweasel is ruining this town. Maybe we’d better cool it.”

  Alvin shook his head. “We can’t cool it — not as long as that lousy impostor keeps scrawling Superweasel’s name across his dirty work. The only thing we can do is to make the town aware, once again, that the real Superweasel is a good guy who only wants to fight pollution.” Alvin’s voice grew stronger as he talked. “Pest,” he ordered, “read us that letter, so we’ll know it says exactly what we want it to say.”

  She picked up the paper in front of her. “Okay, here goes. ‘My dearest Duke:’ That’s the way I started out because this one goes to Duke McDonald in the fifth grade at Field School. Shoie knows him because they went to camp together, and I think he’s the cutest boy I ever saw so I thought —”

  “No, Pest. Just say, ‘Dear Duke.’ Now read the letter itself.”

  Dear Duke: You are one of four kids chosen for a special job because I know you can keep a secret. If you can’t keep a secret, don’t read any further. Just destroy this letter, because otherwise some kids might get hurt, and neither of us would want that. First, I’ll let you in on a secret. I — Superweasel — am an imaginary character invented by kids as a means of fighting pollution. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life as Superweasel. Somebody else is using my name so I’ll get the blame for the vandalism in Riverton.

  I need your help in the biggest attack on pollution that this town — or any other town — has ever seen. If you want to help, meet me in the little park behind the library Thursday night at 9:30 sharp. Don’t mention this note to anyone!

  Signed: Superweasel.

  The Pest gasped. “I just realized that I wrote the letter, and it’s in my handwriting, and if anybody notices it I’ll be blamed for all the bad things that have been going on, and maybe I’ll go to prison.”

  “Don’t worry, Sis. Everything’s going to come out okay. Now copy off that same letter to Loopy Ebright and Ellie Deroo and Dick Dempe. Shoie, have you figured out yet how you can deliver the letters without being seen?”

  “Sure. We’ll put the kids’ names on the envelopes and mark them ‘secret and personal.’ I’ll slip them into their school lockers this afternoon.”

  “I hope none of the kids gives us away,” said Alvin. “We might be arrested on the spot Thursday night. And it might be Dad who makes the arrest!”

  Alvin tried not to let the others know how worried he really was.

  Every day, from then on, was worse than the preceding one.

  And the bad days came to a climax on Thursday afternoon. The Pest was waiting on the front steps when their paper boy sailed the Daily Bugle in her general direction. She leaped high in the air and snatched it with a one-hand catch. Alvin and Shoie were watching from the bedroom window, and gave her a rousing cheer.

  But there was nothing to cheer about when she appeared breathless at the door, moments later.

  “Look!” was all she could say. She pointed to a big picture across the front page.

  It was a picture of Superweasel! His face was hidden by a mask, a velvet cape flowed down his back, and his chest bore the now-familiar letters. In his hand he held a spray can, and he was spraying “Superweasel” in bold letters across the brick wall that ran around the county museum.

  “CAUGHT IN THE ACT” said the headline. Mr. Moser’s article stated that he was on his way home from work late the night before, and had happened to walk past the museum. He had noticed the strange figure of Superweasel in the process of disfiguring the wall. He had promptly taken a flash picture with the camera he always carried. As soon as the bulb went off, Superweasel dropped the can of paint and ran, escaping down an alley.

  “Where did he get the costume?” whispered the Pest.

  Alvin thought long and hard. “Well, Pest didn’t make it for him, that’s for sure. And I’m no split personality, like Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde.”

  “Alvin, you don’t have any split personality,” said Shoie, “though sometimes I think you’re a bit cracked.”

  “There’s only one answer,” said Alvin, beginning to perk up, now that he knew the other two kids had faith in him. “Pest, how did you make the costume? Was there a pattern, or anything like that?”

  “No. I just sort of eyeballed it.”

  “If you eyeballed it, then someone else can eyeball it too. Superweasel’s picture has appeared in the paper twice for anyone to see. Once on the fence by the chemical plant, and once by the foundry without — well, without any pants.”

  “That’s right!” exclaimed Shoie. “He made it himself.”

  “Well, what are we going to do about it?” wailed the Pest. “I feel like burning that dumb costume.”

  “No. Don’t do that. The fact that someone else is running around in a Superweasel costume just makes it all the more obvious that we have to clear Superweasel’s name. Now, more than ever, we have to go ahead with our plans.” Alvin’s voice turned crisp. “I’m going to meet those four kids behind the library tonight.”

  “I’m not so sure you should do that,” said Shoie doubtfully. He pointed to the Daily Bugle. “And I’m not so sure any of the kids will be there — after they see the paper.”

  “Superweasel will be there,” declared Alvin, “in full costume!”

  Chapter 13

  The Superplan Unfolds

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. SLAP!

  Early spring mosquitoes were holding a convention on Alvin’s nose. Angrily he slapped them away, then quickly pulled down his Superweasel mask. “Doggone bugs!”

  “Stand still!” the Pest whispered. She was trying to tie the velvet cape around his neck.

  The three kids were hiding in the tall bushes that grew along one side of the library.

  And Alvin was scared. Just about as scared as he’d been on the way up the smokestack.
He knew that the costume would be convincing evidence against him. The police would brand him a criminal, guilty of all the vandalism in Riverton for the past two weeks. No one would ever believe the truth — that another Superweasel, costumed exactly like Alvin, was stalking the streets of the town. Somehow Alvin had to find the false caped crusader and expose him.

  He slapped cautiously at a mosquito on the back of his neck. He missed it, and a moment later he could hear it buzzing like a chainsaw around the nose-hole in his mask.

  Suddenly he forgot the mosquito. Shoie had grabbed his shoulder, and was pointing out through the bushes at a picnic table in the little park behind the library. There was one small bulb burning off to the side, and in the dim light, Alvin could see two figures approaching the table. His heart began to pound, but he waited. Finally another figure came up the path, then still another.

  At least all four kids had come. But was it a trap? Had they told their parents, or the police, about the meeting? Were the police surrounding the park right now?

  He shouldered his way out of the bushes, waving wildly at the swarm of mosquitoes. In one hand he held four white envelopes.

  Alvin Fernald paused for a moment. He pulled back his shoulders and lifted his head. Then he strode across the grass toward the four kids seated at the picnic table. One of them — a boy about his own age — glanced up, and immediately sprang to his feet. The other kids looked around. As Alvin approached the girl sitting at the table shrank back.

  “Don’t be scared,” said Alvin. But he himself was scared. If this was a trap, the police would pounce right now. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” asked one of the boys suspiciously. “Why, you aren’t even as big as I am. For such a short kid you sure have been doing a lot of damage around town.”

  “Not true,” said Alvin. “There is another Superweasel — an impostor who dresses just like me — who has been doing the damage. All I’ve been doing is fighting pollution.”

  “Can you prove that?” asked the girl.

  Alvin sighed. For the first time he spoke in his own, his normal, voice. “Maybe there’s no way I can convince you, but I swear I haven’t done any vandalism. Listen, kids. I’m just about your own age. Two of you know me slightly, the other two know friends of mine. Soon you’ll find out who I am. Right now I’m in trouble. I need your help in finding and exposing the impostor. Even more important, I need your help in the biggest antipollution campaign any town has ever seen. We can do a lot of good if you’ll work with me. What do you say?”

  The biggest boy grunted. “Sounds mighty screwy to me. You say you need help. Well, you won’t get any help from me until I find out who you are.” He took a step toward Alvin. “And maybe the easiest way to do that is to rip the mask right off your face.”

  Alvin held up one hand. In a voice so commanding it startled even him, he ordered, “Stop! If you rip off my mask you’ll ruin a lot of fun for hundreds of other kids, and a lot of good for Riverton. If you’ll just trust me — and help me — I guarantee you’ll be the talk of the town. You’ll be its heroes, too. Now, what do you say?”

  The girl spoke up. “How long do we have to trust you?”

  “Only until Saturday night. Then you’ll find out everything there is to know about Superweasel.” He lowered his voice, pleading now. “Please, won’t you help?”

  The four kids looked at each other. It was the girl who finally said, “I guess it won’t hurt us to listen to your plan. We have to do something about pollution. If your plan sounds like a good one, I’ll help. But I’m not going to do anything that’s against the law.”

  “Of course not!” Superweasel’s voice sounded truly horrified. It was that, more than anything else, which persuaded the three boys. They nodded their heads.

  “What do you want us to do?” asked the girl, now taking command of the group. “What kind of pollution are we fighting?”

  “What kind of pollution is the most widespread of all?” asked Superweasel in return.

  “Air.”

  “Water.”

  “No. Neither one. The most widespread form of pollution is littering.”

  None of the kids seemed very excited over that.

  “You mean all you want us to do is put our wastepaper in a trash can?” asked one of the boys in disgust.

  “No. Much more than that. I want you to get every kid — every single kid — in the fourth, fifth and sixth grades of your schools, organized in total secrecy. We can’t let adults know anything about it, or the whole effect will be ruined. You’ve got to organize the kids into teams, with team leaders. This tells you how to do it.” Alvin plopped the four envelopes on the table. “We’ll strike at exactly 7:30 Saturday night. I might mention that Alvin Fernald and Shoie Shoemaker, from Roosevelt School, are already in on the plan.” Seeing the lack of enthusiasm on their faces, Alvin went rapidly on, “Now here’s what I’m asking you to do. First I want you to —”

  Fifteen minutes later there was no longer any sign of doubt on the faces of the kids. Instead there was excitement. The kids were asking questions, making suggestions, arguing about how best to do the job. They had discovered that they were to be the key figures in what probably would be the biggest day in the history of Riverton.

  Chapter 14

  What’s Going on Here?

  Superweasel had set 7:30 Saturday night as the moment of his final and most spectacular achievement. Long before 7:30, a good many citizens of Riverton noticed some highly unusual activity around town.

  1:15 p.m. A widow on the east side of town calls the police and reports in a hysterical voice, “The hippies are rioting across the street!” Sergeant Fernald and Officer Twilley are dispatched to investigate. Approximately a hundred children of grade school age are milling around one girl, who is giving orders. The kids break up into orderly groups. As the puzzled officers are about to report back to headquarters, their squad-car radio squawks into life...

  1:26 p.m. The officers are ordered to investigate a disturbance at 1056 South Oak Street. “A white male, approximately twelve years old, is passing out subversive literature on his front lawn.”

  At the scene of the alleged crime the officers find another large group of children in line approaching an owl-eyed boy, who is seated behind a wooden box. He hands each child an envelope. The officers seize one of the envelopes as evidence, and look inside. A piece of paper bears the scrawled message, “One-half block, including the alley, just south of the Kwik-Bite Burger Stand.” It is hardly a subversive message. The officers climb back into their squad car.

  2:42 p.m. A woman in a house on the north edge of town gleefully telephones her husband at his job.

  “Calm down!” he shouts at her. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Remember how, for two weeks, I’ve been trying to get Tim to clean up all that junk in the yard? The dead leaves, tin cans, and old newspapers? Well, a few minutes ago I looked out the window. You won’t believe this, but Tim not only cleaned up our yard, but then he went across the street with two other kids and cleaned up the vacant lot. I tell you, we’ve misjudged that child. Bring home some peppermint ice cream. That’s his favorite.”

  3:10 p.m. A twelve-year-old from Roosevelt School is sent to his room by his mother. This time he really has goofed. He thought the bedspread hanging on the line was just an old rag. He could find no boxes to pack litter in, so he took down the “old rag” and spread it out in the muddy backyard. Then he began throwing trash onto it that had been accumulating since the founder of Riverton galloped into the area 150 years ago and tossed a rusty old horseshoe into the bushes. As a matter of fact, the boy picked up one remaining nail of that horseshoe, wondered briefly what it was, and then tossed it onto his mother’s best bedspread with all the other trash. Just then his mother appeared at the door and began hollering...

  3:55 p.m. A small boy gazes upward into a huge elm tree. There, in the topmost branches, are the remnants of last-
year’s kite. He has been instructed to bring in every bit of scrap in his half-block. He starts climbing...

  4:03 p.m. The Fire Department is called to rescue a small boy caught in the topmost branches of a tall elm tree.

  5:43 p.m. Al Perry calls City Hall with a special problem. It is Saturday afternoon, so he has gone, as is his custom on this day of the week, to Orgo’s Orgy for a “bit of liquid refreshment.” Three hours later, ready at last to go home, he heads across the Orgy’s parking lot and finds his dump truck piled high with everything from bent bedsprings to a weatherworn outhouse which, for fifteen years, has been the biggest eyesore on the south side of town.

  “What,” Al Perry asks City Hall, “should I do with the trash in my truck?” When the City Hall operator, trying to handle a flood of incoming calls, accidentally breaks the connection, he gently replaces the phone on the hook and heads back across the parking lot toward Orgo’s Orgy.

  6:06 p.m. Because of the obvious unrest throughout town, the police chief cancels all police leaves, and orders the entire force to report for duty. “Something’s wrong,” he tells Sergeant Fernald. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  6:15 p.m. In his office Mayor Homer Bienfang is trying to decide what to do. He is new at this job (he was elected only two months ago) and he has no idea how to deal with civil unrest.

  Mayor Bienfang gulps down two more aspirin. All kinds of things have gone wrong, just since he took office. First it was a wave of vandalism caused by that awful Superweasel. Now the kids are up to some kind of deviltry.

  Mayor Bienfang has never had any children of his own, and he has no idea how to handle kids. Instead of causing all this trouble, why can’t they do something constructive, like decorating store windows on Halloween?

  He begins studying a row of figures on a sheet of paper in front of him. It shows that Riverton has 3,281 children under fifteen years of age. The thought of 3,281 children totally out of control within his city terrifies the mayor.