Mr. Pudgins (Nancy Pearl's Book Crush Rediscoveries)

by Ruth Christoffer Carlsen

  Oh dear! I knew what that meant. I was going to have to stop and look for that hammer. “No,” I grumbled. “But I suppose I’ll have to look for it.” We looked under the work bench, all through the toolbox, and even in the garage. I was getting cross. Even if I had used it, I couldn’t see that it was my fault it had mysteriously disappeared.

  “There’s a hammer in Annabelle,” said Mr. Pudgins nodding toward the door. “In the trunk. You can use that one, Pete.”

  Peter ran outside, and in a minute had his head inside that high old trunk, for Mr. Pudgins’s car was a Model T coupe. It was a mighty interesting car. I was watching him as I pulled my sweatshirt over my head to leave, and then I gasped. “Hey, Mr. Pudgins! Pete’s blowing away!”

  Janey rushed from the bedroom, Mr. Pudgins jumped from his armchair, and I started for the door. Just at that minute, Pete blew by at window level. He seemed to be turning somersaults lazily as he went by. And right ahead of him was a queer-looking thing. I only got a glimpse, so I couldn’t tell if it was a bird, animal, or piece of paper.

  We all rushed outside, and just as we rounded the corner of the house that same blast of air caught us. Up into the air we flew and then blew along after Pete. He was halfway down the block. I could hear Mr. Pudgins puffing and exclaiming, and then, up-si-daisy, I was turning slowly over. It was disconcerting. I struggled to get my feet back to the ground, but the air resisted my efforts. Janey was giggling, and when I looked back she was higher than the rest of us. “Paddle!” yelled Mr. Pudgins. So I paddled with my hands and began to gain on Pete. In front of McClotsky’s I grabbed Pete’s leg.

  “Let go,” he screamed.

  “Don’t be crazy. I’ve been trying to catch you!”

  “But I have to catch that thing. It flew out of the car. I’ve got to catch it.”

  “Paddle then,” I yelled. But just as I yelled that, Mr. Pudgins sailed by me, and with one mighty push grabbed the thing. As soon as he touched it, the wind went down, and we all went boomp, landing right flat on the grass! It was lucky we weren’t over the sidewalk. Janey came running up.

  “What happened to the wind? I want to fly!”

  Mr. Pudgins wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was shaking a queer-looking bird. It was something like a turkey in size, but its wings were so tiny that they were of no use at all. And it had a horn-shaped nose that looked as if it had been squashed together by someone pushing too hard on it.

  “What a funny little fluff of a tail. Is it really a tail?” Janey was pointing at some feathers that stuck up.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Of course it’s a tail. But Podo was very naughty. He deserves a spanking.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Mr. Pudgins acted rather cross as we started walking back home. “A dodo bird. Podo is a dodo bird. Surely, you’ve heard of those.”

  “But they’re extinct.”

  “Does that mean they smell?” shouted Petey, who was running after us. Mr. Pudgins was just striding along.

  “Oh, don’t be dumb. Extinct means none left . . . dead . . . gone.” I glared at Petey.

  “He’s not dead,” said Petey.

  “He’s cute,” said Janey. “But I’d like that wind again.”

  “No more wind,” said Mr. Pudgins firmly. “You can see that a dodo bird has such small wings it can’t fly. So when Podo wants to fly, he just sucks in air, blows it out that horn of a nose, hops on the wind, and blows along. It’s a nuisance.” He gave the dodo another shake. “I ought to send him back where he came from.”

  The dodo bird hung its head.

  “Where did he come from?” asked Janey as we turned up our walk.

  But Mr. Pudgins didn’t answer her. “Come,” he said, “let’s sit out on the back lawn where we can just talk.”

  “Does it talk?” gasped Petey.

  “Of course I talk,” said Podo with a loud nasal twang.

  “Oh, he does. He does,” squealed Janey, pulling up a chair and looking intently at the dodo.

  “But I don’t like your language,” said the dodo.

  Mr. Pudgins set the dodo down on the grass, and the bird waddled around looking us over. “Queer-looking things you are, aren’t you? No feathers . . .” He nipped at my arms. “Useless-looking wings.”

  “They aren’t wings,” I said.

  “What are those flaps sticking out from your head? Are they wings?” The dodo was staring at me.

  “Oh, those are ears. I hear with them,” I grumbled.

  “They certainly are queer,” said the dodo.

  “Not any queerer than you.”

  The dodo just said, “Hummph.”

  “Now, children,” said Mr. Pudgins as he pulled out his pipe and began to puff. “No quarreling. Why don’t you, Podo, say a poem for us in your dodo language?”

  “Oh, may I?” said Podo, bouncing up and down. “Oh, joy!”

  He pulled a few feathers in place, bounced his tail until it fluffed out a bit, and then sang in his voice like a locomotive whistle:

  “Glibbitty, bobbity, sibbidy, dobbidy,

  Ibbidy, jibbidy, sobbidy, nobbidy . . .

  Hurrahbidy, hurrahbidy, hurrahbidy, hurrah,

  Mirrabidy, gurrahbidy, currahbidy, gurrah.”

  Petey started to laugh, and even Mr. Pudgins was smiling. The dodo bird got very huffy. “It is not a funny song,” he said. “It is a song in praise of the sun and flowers.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it,” said Janey.

  “It does, too,” growled the dodo, and a big tear ran down his short crushed nose. “That’s just what it does. You may not understand the words, but the sound, the feeling, should reach through to you.”

  “Oh, dear. Now you’ve hurt his feelings,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Come, come, Podo. They didn’t mean it. Perhaps they’d like to learn to talk just like you.”

  “I can do it now,” I said, jumping to my feet.

  “In the scabbayshous, layshous, bracious

  I can maysheous my calayshous

  And the nashous, hateful glayshous

  Will drop stinkshous on my rayshous.”

  “How’s that?” I grinned. The dodo bird looked rather doubtful. “I’m not sure that’s a very happy song,” he said, “but it’s not bad.”

  “It’s my turn now,” said Janey. “I’ve got a dodo poem, too.”

  “Heffala, heffala, heffala kanoba.

  Treffala, treffala in the groba.

  Whoofink, whoofink, on the wattink.

  Listen to the muffler batink.”

  Petey clapped his hands. “Me now. Me.”

  The dodo was sitting back on his bit of a tail, and tears were running down his cheeks. “Come, come, Podo, don’t be so sad,” said Mr. Pudgins.

  “But it is so sad,” said Podo wailing. “Those poor little mufflers batinking and batinking. I don’t know if I can stand anymore.”

  “Me, me!” shouted Pete.

  “All right, Pete,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Begin.”

  Pete looked around at us all and then just barely whispered:

  “When the biffla comes and whifflas

  Then the sifflas run and griffla,

  But oh! the awful snicker snaffle

  When the giffers whicker whaffle.”

  “How’s that? How’s that?” shouted Pete, jumping up and down in excitement.

  “Not bad, Pete. Not bad at all,” said Mr. Pudgins. And then an awful noise ripped the air. It sounded almost like a fire siren crossed with a locomotive whistle. But it was only the dodo lying nose down and crying. He had a little pool of tears right at his feet.

  “It’s so sad,” he sobbed. “So sad. Put me away. I can’t stand anymore.”

  “Now, now, Podo. I’ll go and tuck you in Annabelle. We’ll have the neighbors complaining if you keep wailing.”

  “Oh, jibbidy,” I said.

  “No whibbidy?” asked Janey. We started to giggle. And while Mr. Pudgins carried the wailing dodo bird off, we kept talkin
g dodo talk.

  “Will you sibbidy your rubbers?” I asked Jane.

  “Not with my nose aglogga,” she answered.

  “Please, globbidy,” said Pete.

  “Oh, ruffidy, roddidy,” said Jane.

  And just then Mother came around the corner with Mr. Pudgins and stopped short when she saw us sitting on the chairs, waving our hands and talking. But she couldn’t hear the talk.

  “How do you do it?” I heard her murmur as she came up to us. “Imagine their sitting in the yard, just talking.”

  “Quite simple,” said Mr. Pudgins, “if you know how.”

  “And I glibbidy the iddity,” I added. But Mother just shook her head and wondered.

  Boy, this was a hot day even for July. I felt sorry for Dad, off being the rear end of a horse. His club was putting on a show and supper for the kids in the Crippled Children’s Hospital, and that’s the part Dad drew. Mother kept saying she thought a man of his intelligence at least ought to have been the front part, but Dad said he could be funnier where he was. I wished I could see him. Mother had to help serve the supper.

  We were lucky, though, because Mr. Pudgins was staying with us, and you could never tell what might happen. I decided to build a stand to sell lemonade. I’d do a big business on a day like this. About the time I began pounding the board across the two orange crates, Janey and Pete came in from the back yard. They were a mess. I guess they had turned the hose into the garden and then dug in the mud. Mr. Pudgins took one look at them and said, “Bathtub for you two. Forward march.”

  And they marched, but right away the trouble began. I could hear the fuss in the bathroom. The cold water wouldn’t run.

  “Where’s a wrench?” asked Mr. Pudgins, sticking his head out of the door and calling to me.

  “You’d better call a plumber. Mother’s written his name down on that little book on the telephone stand.”

  “Nonsense!” he answered. “I can handle this myself. Where’s a wrench?”

  I showed him where the wrench was, and he clumped down into the basement. Awful noises—banging, clanging, whooshing noises came out of the basement. Then Mr. Pudgins came upstairs looking very satisfied. “I guess that fixed it,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Is it all right, Janey?” he called.

  We could hear the water running and excited squeals from the bathroom. “All’s well,” said Mr. Pudgins and sat down to smoke his pipe. “Might as well let them play awhile and cool off.”

  I had just finished the sign that said “Cold Drink 5¢” when I heard Mr. Pudgins say in a horrified voice, “For goodness sakes!” I ran into the house. Something was up.

  When I saw Janey and Pete, I just stared. They were a pale purple all over—hair, cheeks, stomach, legs. Back and forth they paraded, as if they had a fancy costume on.

  “What happened to them?” I gasped.

  “I was wondering the same thing myself,” said Mr. Pudgins. He got up, and we followed him to the bathroom. The tub was filled with some purple stuff.

  “What’s in that tub?” said Mr. Pudgins sternly.

  “I don’t know,” said Janey. “It just whooshed right out of the faucet.”

  “Good to drink, too,” said Petey.

  I turned on the tap, and a purple liquid gushed out. I stuck my finger in the stuff and tasted it. “Ummmmm. It is good—grape pop.”

  Mr. Pudgins tried a bit and smiled. “Not bad at all.”

  “I’m going to run that into pitchers and sell it just like that. Boy, what luck! Try the washbowl, Janey.”

  And she did. Out came, not purple stuff, but orange. And that tasted like orange pop. In fact, it was orange pop. I almost knocked Petey down running to the kitchen. There the cold-water faucet ran lime pop. “Down to the basement, kids!” I yelled. And we tore downstairs. Janey turned on the faucet in the washtub and out gushed a brown drink.

  Pete tasted it and grinned. “Root beer,” he yelled. “This is my place. I’m going to drink here.”

  “Everybody get a pitcher and fill it with a different pop,” I shouted. “Watch our business grow.” And away we tore. But Mr. Pudgins caught Petey and Jane, and made them put on sunsuits. They really attracted people. Everyone who walked by our house wanted to know how the youngsters got purple. So while we told them about the faucets in our house, they drank lots of glasses of root beer, orange pop, limeade, and grape pop. Business was wonderful.

  Even some of the mothers came to buy our drinks by the quart. By then, though, Janey and Pete had disappeared, so the parents didn’t get to see their new color. Dinner was certainly different, too. The potatoes had been boiled in orange pop, and they had a very different flavor. For a change, Mr. Pudgins had cooked the carrots in the limeade, and our lettuce had been washed in the grape pop. Only the meat looked perfectly normal.

  “Yummmm,” said Petey. “I like these potatoes.” He hadn’t eaten any potatoes for months, but he just dived into those orange-colored ones.

  “And I like the grape-pop salad,” said Janey. “Lettuce and grape pop is delicious.”

  “Say, even these limeade carrots are good. I bet nobody in town is having a dinner like this,” I said.

  “I daresay you are absolutely right,” said Mr. Pudgins, eating quietly and quickly. “Would you like some more root beer?” asked Mr. Pudgins. We had decided to have root beer as our drink, since there was no cold water. And to finish our meal we had cookies and popsicles, any flavor we wanted. We had made them from our pop. Oh, that was the best meal we had ever had. When it was over, though, Mr. Pudgins looked very thoughtful. “Now,” he said, “I must go down in the basement and see just what I did wrong.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Pudgins,” begged Janey, “please don’t make the faucets run water. We like it this way.”

  “I want my root beer,” wailed Petey. He looked ready to cry. We all felt pretty sad.

  “There are a lot of milk bottles in the kitchen,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Why don’t you each fill two bottles with your favorite kind of drink and put them in the refrigerator. That should be enough for a long while.”

  It was pretty hard for me to decide on my favorite flavors. But not for Pete. He clumped right downstairs and got two quarts of root beer. Janey decided on one grape pop and one orange. I finally took a quart of limeade and one of grape pop. Gosh, that stuff was good! Then from the basement came an awful banging and clanging. The pipes rattled. They gurgled. Then it was quiet. I ran to the faucet in the kitchen and turned it on. Nothing but water. The bathtub faucet? Nothing but water. Only the washbowl seemed to run a little orange now and then.

  Mr. Pudgins insisted that Petey and Jane have a bath and get the purple off of them. They didn’t want to at first, but when they thought about it, they knew that Mom would be mad if she found they had been bathing in grape pop.

  The house was all quiet when Mother and Dad came home. After Mr. Pudgins had left, I heard them in the kitchen. “My heavens, Jack, look at all the pop in the refrigerator. Bottles and bottles of the stuff.”

  “Good heavens!” came Dad’s voice. “Where did it come from?”

  “I suppose Johnny had a sale. I guess it can’t hurt them,” said Mother. I smiled to myself in the dark. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew the truth, though? Then from the bathroom came Mother’s voice again. “Jack, I’ve told you over and over to call that plumber. He’s just got to check the rust in the pipes. The cold water is colored with orange.”

  I wanted to tell her it was really orange pop, but I was too sleepy. I decided to wait until morning. And in the morning I decided she wouldn’t believe me. Sometimes after that the neighbors kidded Mother about letting her youngsters take a bath in grape pop, but she only laughed. She knew that they really hadn’t.

  I was fiddling with my radio and slowly getting undressed for bed, but not very enthusiastically. It was a hot August night as only an August night can be. Mother and Dad had gone out for dinner at the Smiths’. Dad had moaned about having to wear a coat on
such a night, but he had it on when he left. Mr. Pudgins had discarded his to give Jane and Pete their bath. From the bathroom I could hear splashing noises and high squeals. That was Pete and Jane.

  “John! Come here!”

  That was Mr. Pudgins, and he sounded desperate.

  I ran. There was Mr. Pudgins on his knees, hanging on to the bathtub while Janey and Pete were playing around in a tub full of bubble bath. Mr. Pudgins’s nose was quivering, and when that large a thing quivers, everything seems to.

  “Grab the tub,” he ordered. “Must be some gas in that bubble bath. The bathtub’s trying to float away.”

  Sure enough it was. It came loose from the wall with an awful rip, and I grabbed hold of the side and hung on. Petey and Jane clapped their hands and squealed. “Let go, Johnny. We want to go up.” But I hung on. Only my feet were now off the floor.

  “Hopeless,” muttered Mr. Pudgins. “Might as well let her go. Climb in, Johnny.”

  “But my clothes?”

  “They’ll dry, lad. Do drop your shoes over.”

  I popped into the tub, and we floated out through the window and into the sky. I was in front near the faucets, Pete behind me, and then Janey. Sitting on the back edge of the tub smoking his pipe and very unconcerned was Mr. Pudgins. “Give the right faucet a twist, Johnny, or we’ll sail out of town.”

  I did, and we gently turned right. It was wonderful—much better than a plane. And it was such a hot night that we didn’t feel the least bit cold. Down below we could see the Johnsons’ big police dog, and he barked like mad as we went over. Janey dropped a big glob of bubbly stuff on his nose, and he rubbed and rubbed it in the grass trying to get it off.

  Mr. Hinkleberry was out hoeing his garden, and he opened his mouth so wide when he saw us floating in the tub that I yearned to toss some bubbles in the hole. “Lovely evening, sir,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Lovely.”