Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  But what made Homer smile was not the magnificence of the new ride, but the person who stood next to it.

  “Hello, Ajitabh,” Homer said.

  His uncle’s dear friend grabbed Homer’s hand and pulled him into a hug. “Homer,” he said. “You have returned. I’m dreadfully sorry I wasn’t here for the meeting. Family emergency and all that. But my father has recovered and all is well.”

  “I’m glad,” Homer said. He pulled out the chain and held up the membership coin.

  “Well done, lad,” Ajitabh said, slapping Homer’s back. “Well done indeed.” He reached down and patted Dog. “And your hound, too. Well done.” Then he stroked the ends of his mustache and gave Homer a long, concerned look. “You look like you’ve been to the ends of the earth and back.”

  Homer tucked the membership coin under his shirt. “I feel that way.”

  “You can tell me all about it later, when we’ve got some privacy. Those wouldn’t happen to be leech-proof socks, would they?”

  He’d forgotten to take off the socks, which were visible below the hems of his too-short jeans. “Yep,” Homer said proudly. “From Mr. Tuffletop.”

  A group of kids from Homer’s school ran past, heading for the slide. “Hey, Homer,” they called. A boy shot out of the tunnel and landed in the foam moat. Then he ran to a garbage can and vomited. “That is the best ride ever!” he hollered as he got back in line.

  “Ajitabh, how did you do this?” Homer asked, shaking his head in wonder.

  “Zelda called me and told me about your predicament,” Ajitabh explained.

  “Yeah, but how did you build it so quickly?”

  “My dear boy, have you forgotten who I am?” Ajitabh put his hands on his hips. “I invented the cloudcopter. Building a gunnysack slide is as easy as making toast.”

  “Homer!” Mr. Pudding and Mrs. Pudding hurried to their son’s side.

  “You’re home early,” Mrs. Pudding said as she hugged Homer.

  Max and Lulu, the farm dogs, licked Dog’s face and sniffed him all over. Blue ribbons hung from their necks. “It was amazing,” Mr. Pudding said. “I wish you could have seen it, Homer. They did right fine. Right fine.”

  “I wish I could have seen it, too,” Homer said.

  “And your mother won two blue ribbons for her pies. And your sister… well, I don’t know what to think about your sister.”

  “She has a boyfriend. It’s natural,” Mrs. Pudding said. Mr. Pudding rolled his eyes. Mrs. Pudding kissed Homer’s forehead, then kissed both his cheeks. “We missed you. How come you’re so dirty? When’s the last time you had a bath?”

  “Stop pestering the boy. Boys get dirty when they go on camping trips,” Mr. Pudding said. Then he winced. “But you don’t exactly smell like a bed of flowers, son. Maybe we should get you home and into the tub.”

  Homer started to introduce his parents to Ajitabh. “We’ve already met Mr. Ajitabh,” Mr. Pudding said. “He’s a genius. A genius. Would you look at that slide?”

  “And he named it after our family,” Mrs. Pudding said. “The Pudding Gunnysack Slide. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  “Yes,” Homer said. “Super nice.”

  “I admit that I’m not usually fond of my brother’s friends,” Mr. Pudding said. “But I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Ajitabh. Much obliged.”

  Another kid shot out of the tunnel. “Homer!” Squeak, Homer’s little brother, landed in the foam moat, then staggered to his feet. His legs wobbly, he ran up to Homer and hugged him. “You’re back.”

  “Hi, Squeak,” Homer said. “Do you like the new slide?”

  “It’s great. I’m so glad you broke the old slide.” Squeak grabbed Dog’s leash. “I’m gonna take Dog on the slide. Come on, Dog. Come on, Homer.”

  “Go on, give it a try.” Ajitabh took Homer’s backpack and motioned toward the slide.

  Homer followed his brother up the steep stairs, pushing Dog’s rump the entire way. “Try this one,” Squeak said when they got to the top. “It’s called The Cannon. I’m taking Dog on The Corkscrew.”

  Dog didn’t seem to mind when Squeak set him on a gunnysack. Homer grabbed his own gunnysack and set it at the entrance to The Cannon. “You ready?” he called to Dog as he positioned himself.

  “Urrrr.”

  “GO!” Squeak yelled.

  There are times in life when soaring through the air is an absolute necessity. Like when you need to get to an island to finish your quest, or when you need to save a free-falling dog. Or when you just need to have a bit of fun.

  Down, down, down Homer slid, and when he shot out the bottom he looked over to see his dog, his friend, flying alongside him, his ears soaring like wings. Homer reached out and grabbed Dog’s paw and they landed on the foam the way they’d always land.

  Together.

  41

  It’s Official

  About a week later, a letter came in the mail addressed to Homer. He opened it in the privacy of his bedroom because he’d recognized the return address:

  THAT NAMBY-PAMBY KID WHO’S AFRAID OF EVERYTHING

  The Simpleton Palace

  Lofty Spires

  And here’s the letter:

  Hi, Homer,

  Guess what! I broke my ankle in two places, so I’ve been able to hang out in my room the entire time and haven’t seen my brothers or sister once. Baldwin brought me the newest edition of The Complete Dictionary of the English Language, so I’ve been studying for the next spelling bee, which is in September, so I hope you’ll come. But maybe I’ll see you at a L.O.S.T. meeting before then. You never know.

  I’ve enclosed your official certificate of membership. I filed it in triplicate so we will not have any confusion at the next meeting.

  Oh, and one other thing. I signed up for skydiving lessons. I know, very unexpected, but Baldwin thinks it will be good for me. And I think so, too. I don’t want to be afraid of everything anymore.

  See you soon.

  Hercules

  Homer reached under his bed and lifted the plank. Then he set the official certificate right next to the hidden copy of Rumpold Smeller’s treasure map. He set the plank back in place and smiled.

  42

  Rumpold Smeller the Pirate

  She stood on the ship’s deck, the salt water tingling her nostrils. What a lovely scent, the salty air. What a lovely feeling, the motion of the water. She leaned against the ship’s rail. The crew was busy hoisting sails and coiling ropes as the harbor faded into the distance. The ocean awaited.

  “Captain Smeller?” one of the men said. “We done what you ordered, sir. We removed all the embroidered pillows from your stateroom.”

  “Excellent,” she said, deepening her voice. “I never want to see an embroidered pillow again.”

  Dear Reader,

  Your teacher may decide to assign you a book report about the secret Society of Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures. But here’s the problem—because it’s a secret society, you won’t find any information about it in the library. So, because I like you very much, I’ve provided you with this handy-dandy list. I hope it’s helpful.

  CURRENT ROSTER FOR THE SECRET SOCIETY OF LEGENDS, OBJECTS, SECRETS, and TREASURES

  Ajitabh: Received his doctorate in inventology from Cambridge University. Invited to join L.O.S.T. because of his unique inventions, which include the cloudcopter. Resides in a secret tower in the sky.

  Jeremiah Carson: Renowned fossil hunter and excavation expert. His most famous discovery was the missing link’s foot. Resides in Montana.

  Sir Titus Edmund: Renowned archaeologist who unearthed the only known Egyptian toaster. Current whereabouts unknown.

  Angus MacDoodle: Invited to join because he found a substantial stash of Celtic coins in his backyard. Currently living in an undisclosed location.

  Dr. Gertrude Magnum: Doctor of Subterranean Worlds. Offered membership after she discovered the Great Crystal Cave. Lives on her yachts.

  The Honorable Lord M
ockingbird XVIII: Current president and eldest member. Renowned mapmaker who inherited his membership from his father. Lives in The City.

  Hercules Simple: Official records keeper. Offered membership after he became the World’s Spelling Bee champion. Lives in the gated community of Lofty Spires.

  Professor Thaddius Thick: Professor Emeritus of Egyptology at Cairo University. Famous for finding more mummies than anyone else. Lives in Cairo.

  Torch: Inherited her membership from her mother. Has a keen interest in the lost civilization of Atlantis but has yet to find anything. Lives wherever she feels like living.

  The Unpolluter: No information available at this time.

  Zelda Wallow: Archaeologist. Invited to join because of her expertise on forgeries and artifacts. Lives in Gloomy Moor.

  And if you’ve read this book, you know who the twelfth member is.

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to my first draft readers, Robert Ranson, Carol Cassella, and Elsa Watson. And to my wise editors, Julie Scheina and Jennifer Hunt, and my agent, Michael Bourret, for continuing this journey with Homer, Dog, and me. I’m very grateful to the entire Little, Brown staff for their support and enthusiasm. Victoria and Zoe, you know what I’m talking about!

  I love to hear from my readers, so please write to me at mail@suzanneselfors.com.

  CALLING ALL SCALAWAGS AND SCUTTLEBUGS!

  Join Homer and Dog as they embark on a swashbuckling third adventure to uncover their biggest treasure yet!

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Smells Like Pirates, the exciting sequel to Smells Like Treasure coming in November 2012.

  1

  Sweet and Sour Sixteen

  It was a nearly perfect morning on the Pudding Goat Farm.

  The sun rose with the rooster’s crowing, then gently reached through Homer Pudding’s bedroom window, tickling Homer’s cheeks with its long, warm fingers. A songbird settled on the windowsill, the notes of its sweet melody dancing through the air. The scents of huckleberry pancakes and sizzling bacon wafted up the stairs, filling the bedroom with deliciousness. And a loving voice called—

  “Get out of bed, you big dork!”

  Okay, so it wasn’t a loving voice. It was a moody, bossy voice, and it belonged to Homer’s sister, Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding.

  If she knew my secrets, Homer thought, she wouldn’t call me a dork. He yawned and rubbed crust from his eyes, then stared up at his sister’s scowling face. “What time is it?”

  “Do I look like your personal alarm clock?” she snarled. “Mom told me to tell you to get out of bed. So get out of bed.” She stomped out the door, her white lab coat billowing behind her.

  Gwendolyn’s foul personality was, according to Mrs. Pudding, a direct result of her age. Fifteen years, three hundred and fifty-nine days, to be exact, which made her a teenager. “Just because you’ve got pimples is no reason to be so rude,” Homer mumbled as the lab coat disappeared around the corner.

  “Urrrr,” agreed the dog lying beside him.

  Although he looked like an ordinary basset hound, the dog lying next to Homer was not one bit ordinary. An ordinary basset hound has a highly tuned sense of smell. Because the world tends to be a smelly place, an ordinary basset hound spends a great deal of time being led around by its nose. Homer’s dog, however, had been born with a nose that didn’t work quite right. Dog’s nose didn’t smell rotting garbage or frisky rabbits or grandma’s pot roast. Dog’s nose smelled only one thing—treasure. And that was Homer’s most treasured secret. Dog rolled onto his extra-long back and stuck his extra-short legs straight up in the air, presenting his white belly for a morning scratch. Homer obliged. Ever since Dog came to the Pudding farm earlier that year, he had spent almost every night sleeping next to Homer. Some of those nights had been filled with danger and excitement as Homer pursued his dream of becoming a famous treasure hunter. The month of August, however, had proven to be a bore—day after day of the same blue-sky weather, day after day of the same old farm chores, and day after day of wondering when adventure would come knocking.

  “Urrrr?” Dog complained when Homer stopped scratching.

  “We’d better get downstairs,” Homer said, “or Gwendolyn might eat our pancakes.”

  While many kids get to sleep in during the summer months, dreaming of bike riding, swimming, and kite flying, the Pudding kids always got up early. This was the reality of life on a goat farm. Chores don’t magically take care of themselves—at least, not in this story.

  After dressing in his work clothes, a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, Homer did what he did most mornings—he checked under his bed. Lying on his belly, he pushed aside a pair of dirty socks, then pried free a loose floorboard. He peered into the hole and counted. His secret items were all in attendance: his L.O.S.T. membership certificate, his professional treasure-hunting clothes, and a book called Rare Reptiles I Caught and Stuffed, which contained the most famous pirate treasure map in the world. Why was it the most famous pirate treasure map in the world? Because it had been drawn by Rumpold Smeller, a pirate who spent most of his life traveling the world, amassing a treasure said to be greater than anyone could imagine. And Homer secretly owned this map.

  With a smile, he returned the floorboard to its place. All was well beneath his bed.

  Homer led Dog down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. The swirling scents of breakfast pulled Homer like a leash. The Pudding kitchen was a charming place. Checkered curtains framed a window that overlooked a vegetable garden. Farm-animal magnets covered the refrigerator, and a blue pitcher of field flowers sat on the counter.

  Mrs. Pudding bustled around the stove, her brown curls bouncing. Mr. Pudding sat at the end of the kitchen table reading the Sunday City Paper, his overall straps hanging at his waist. Gwendolyn sat slumped in her chair, slurping her orange juice. Across from her on a bench sat Squeak, Homer’s little brother. He stopped pushing his toy truck around the table and smiled. “Hi, Homer.”

  “Hi, Squeak.”

  Dog waddled to his dish, his tail wagging. Because Dog couldn’t smell anything but treasure, he wasn’t a picky eater. In fact, he’d been known to eat shoes, wood, worms, and toenail clippings. Mrs. Pudding often filled his bowl with leftovers, but sometimes Squeak tried to sneak in weird things—which is why Homer always stopped at the dog bowl first. “Squeak,” he scolded as he picked out a blue marble, “please don’t feed your toys to Dog.”

  Squeak snickered.

  As Dog inhaled his meal, Homer sat in his usual chair at the table’s end, opposite Mr. Pudding. He sighed and stared at his empty plate. He sighed and stared out the window. He tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. Another long, hot, boring, totally routine August day.

  To an outsider, this scene in the Pudding kitchen would appear normal—an ordinary family sitting down to an ordinary breakfast. But this was no ordinary family. Although Homer looked like a regular kind of kid, at twelve years of age, he was the youngest member of the Society of Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures—a secret organization dedicated to treasure hunting. Though Homer’s family knew Homer wanted, more than anything in the world, to be a treasure hunter, they did not know that he actually was a treasure hunter, for Homer had sworn an oath of secrecy. It made him kind of sad that he couldn’t tell his family about how he and Dog had jumped out of an airplane, or how they’d found a cave of harmonic crystals, or how they’d defeated the evil Madame la Directeur. But Homer knew that an oath of secrecy was nothing to mess around with.

  “I’ve been thinking about a theme,” Mrs. Pudding said as she slid pancakes and bacon onto her family’s plates.

  “A what?” Mr. Pudding said, turning a page of his newspaper.

  “A theme for Gwendolyn’s sweet-sixteen party.”

  Sweet sixteen? Homer thought as he poured syrup on his pancakes. More like sour sixteen.

  “I was thinking a butterfly theme, or a pony theme.” Mrs. Pudding smiled lovingly, the gold flecks in her br
own eyes sparkling. She sat down next to Gwendolyn. “How about a teddy bear theme?”

  “Mom,” Gwendolyn groaned, sinking lower in her chair. “I’m not a baby. Those themes are creepy.”

  “I like teddy bears,” Squeak said, syrup dripping down his chin. Dog moseyed across the room and stood right under Squeak’s feet. Since nearly half of Squeak’s food ended up on the floor, this was a rewarding place to stand.

  Mrs. Pudding stirred her coffee. “If you don’t like my suggestions, then what theme would you like, Gwendolyn dear?”

  “Roadkill,” Gwendolyn replied.

  Mrs. Pudding gasped. Squeak giggled. Mr. Pudding closed the newspaper and scowled. But Homer didn’t flinch. It made perfect sense that his sister wanted a roadkill theme. She wanted, with all her heart, to become a Royal Taxidermist for the Museum of Natural History. She had her own laboratory out in the shed, where she practiced the art of stuffing dead animals.

  “And it’s got to be fresh roadkill,” Gwendolyn said. “No maggots.”

  “Now, sweetie,” Mrs. Pudding said, “you can’t ask your guests to bring roadkill.”

  “Why not? It’s my birthday.”

  “Forget it,” Mr. Pudding said, slapping his hand on the table. “No daughter of mine is going to have a roadkill party. You’ll choose one of those nice themes your mother suggested.”

  Gwendolyn darted to her feet and uttered the same statement she’d uttered yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. “You are totally! Ruining! My life!”