“But, Hort, you wouldn’t believe what I did find in here!” he said.
“Forks?”
Bump was stunned.
“How on earth did you guess?”
“I didn’t guess,” said Horton. “Every month, Miss Neversly brings me down here and makes me polish them all. She wants them to be spotless in case M’Lady Luggertuck ever decides she wants forks again.”
“Does that mean that Miss Neversly has a key?”
“Yes! Good thinking!” exclaimed Horton. “But how on earth could I pinch it from her? If I told her the truth, she’d kill us with that spoon of hers.”
“Please, Horton, you’ve got to do something. I’m going to starve to death in here or maybe die of thirst.”
“I’ll think of something,” promised Horton. “First, I’ll go get a funnel and a jug and try to pour some water through the keyhole for you. And maybe Loafburton will bake a really, really thin piece of bread for you.
“Then,” Horton added, “maybe I can sweet-talk Miss Neversly.”
Bump laughed for the first time all day.
Horton ran back to the kitchen, but, before he could find Loafburton or get the funnel or even think about sweet talk, Miss Neversly landed on him like a wolf grabbing a rabbit.
“Guests, guests!” she cried, swinging the spoon wildly. “There are guests coming and all the Garlic-Chip Sherbet Cups are dirty! Dirty! And you, you, are off napping as usual! Sloth! Villain! Huggletyplucker!”
Horton had never seen her so mad. When she calmed down enough to aim her blows a little better, she might really hurt him with that spoon. There was no way he’d be doing any sweet-talking tonight.
“Stop!” came an insistent voice—Loafburton’s. Horton saw that the baker’s sleeves were wet and soapy.
“Here are your Garlic-Chip Sherbet Cups, Nell,” Loafburton snarled, “although I can’t imagine any guests will want to eat such a foul dessert. Why can’t you make sherbet with raspberries like a decent cook might?”
Miss Neversly forgot all about Horton for the moment, which was just what Loafburton intended. She turned on Loafburton with hate in her heart.
She swung her spoon at the baker. He simply grabbed it in one huge hand and snapped it in two. (Years of kneading bread dough had left the man with extremely powerful arms and hands.)
This was, as everyone in the kitchen knew, a challenge, a thrown-down gauntlet, a slap in the face.
Loafburton had long bristled at following Neversly’s commands. Now the Loosening had given him the courage to fight back. But the Loosening hadn’t affected Neversly one way or the other—her heart was still as black as her roast beef.
It appeared to all that Neversly and Loafburton would finally battle each other to forever decide who held reign over the kitchen.
Every assistant cook, baker’s helper, pastry chef, and coleslaw chopper froze and watched with high hopes of seeing Miss Neversly dethroned. But as Loafburton looked into the cook’s eyes, he saw a hateful madness and he knew fear.
Just at that moment, Footman Jennings appeared.
“Horton Halfpott is wanted in the Front Hall,” he said.
“What?” snarled Neversly.
“What?” echoed everyone else in the kitchen.
“He’s wanted, Cook. Wanted in the Front Hall by one of the guests.”
Everyone in the kitchen began whispering and wondering. Who could possibly want to see Horton?
Horton wondered too, of course, but mostly he was just glad to leave the kitchen. He dodged past the cook and the baker and followed Footman Jennings up the stairs.
Loafburton, relieved, slipped away to check on some dough he had left to rise.
This left Miss Neversly angry and sputtering, but still the empress of the kitchen.
She selected a new spoon from her extensive collection. This one was cast iron and clublike and quite lethal.
In Which Celia Saves the Day . . .
When Horton saw that it was Celia Sylvan-Smythe who had asked to see him, he experienced the following sensations:
The rapid percolation of the Halfpott heart, for she was still beautiful and still smiling.
The trembling of the Halfpott stomach, for he knew for certain by now that he really did love her. (Don’t worry, this chapter doesn’t dwell on that subject.)
A sudden surge of mental cogitation in the Halfpott brain, for suddenly he knew how to rescue Bump.
“Good evening, Mr. Halfpott,” called Celia, who was standing in the Front Hall with the Shortleys. They appeared to have just arrived.
Footman Jennings hovered around with their shawls, hats, and canes. A butler stood ready to open the doors to the sitting room, where the Luggertucks were presumably waiting. Several maids were peeping down the stairs. All watched Horton with eager curiosity. This was a rare event indeed—a kitchen boy summoned by a guest. An Unprecedented Marvel.
“I believe, Mr. Halfpott, that you may have dropped this while delivering our invitation some few days ago.”
She held out a small package wrapped in brown paper. She had addressed him coldly and formally, but now she gave him a little wink.
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss,” Horton said. With all eyes on him, he should be very careful, he knew, yet he said what he needed to say quite boldly:
“While visiting Smugwick Manor, be sure to see the Bejeweled Fork that once belonged to King Henry the Eighth. It is truly one of the family’s finest treasures.”
Jennings and the butler looked at each other with raised eyebrows. This babble seemed a little impertinent, but then again it wasn’t outright rude. They didn’t hear Horton whisper, “Please, Miss, it’s important.”
That was it. Horton returned to the kitchen (where everybody stared at him) and Celia entered the drawing room (where everybody, especially Montgomery, stared at her).
“Oh, Celia,” gushed M’Lady Luggertuck, “I’m so sorry that my son, Luther, isn’t here to receive you. I don’t know where he’s gotten to. However, here is Montgomery, who has been so eager to see you.”
“Would you like to walk in the garden?” Montgomery slobbered.
Desperate to avoid this fate, Celia said, “M’Lady Luggertuck, I’ve been told that you own King Henry the Eighth’s Bejeweled Fork. I would so love to see it. I’ve always been particularly fascinated with Royal Silverware.” (This was a white lie. Celia didn’t give a huggletypluck for anybody’s silverware.)
M’Lady Luggertuck bristled at the mention of the word “fork.” However, since Celia was a guest in her home and since it was a chance to show off the family’s wealth, she called out: “Jennings, have Miss Neversly send up the Bejeweled Fork.”
Jennings made another trip to the kitchen and asked Miss Neversly for the fork.
Neversly, who kept the key on a chain around her neck, pulled the chain off, threw the heavy iron key at Horton’s head, and snarled:
“Go fetch the fork, boy, and it better be spotless or I’ll . . .”
Horton didn’t wait to hear the rest. He grabbed the key and ran for the Vestibule of Large Roman Objects.
Thus was Bump freed!
Celia, for her part, was not free. She was forced to feign interest in what is perhaps the ugliest fork ever made and then eat some nasty-tasting sherbet and then listen to M’Lady Luggertuck yammer on and on, all the while trying to avoid Montgomery.
During the long ride home she puzzled over why Horton had wanted her to see the fork. But she smiled when she thought of him opening her present: a small leather-bound book entitled The Flora and Fauna of British Mires, Moors, Bogs, and Large Puddles. On the frontispiece of which she had penciled, “This may be useful the next time you come to visit me, which I hope will be soon. Your friend, Celia.” Reader, you may well imagine what effect these words had worked on Horton.
In Which Two Wigs Are Worse Than One . . .
Siegfried flung himself with reckless disregard for his passengers, Blight and Blemish, down the road to the village
, Lugger-Upon-the-Wold. Luckily, this is where Luther had gone, too, and—again, luckily—the two boys didn’t fall off.
Because of Siegfried’s speed and daring, they arrived in the village just a minute after Luther.
However, in the growing darkness, they might never have seen him if not for the wig, which Luther now wore as he entered Slaughterboard’s Inn.
“That was a surprising sight,” said Blemish.
“I must concur,” said Blight. “Mr. Blemish, would you care to join me in peeking in the window of this establishment to see if we may determine the reason for the surprising sight?”
“As you wish, Mr. Blight.”
They dismounted, or rather fell, from Siegfried—who had slowed down a bit to inspect the village’s population of lady horses—and proceeded to peek into the window, which stood open due to the warm weather.
Blight and Blemish, who were perspiring due to the warm weather, ducked back down immediately. Luther, wearing not just the wig but also Colonel Sitwell’s monocle, sat at a table just a few feet away.
Luther hadn’t seen them. His attention was fixed on someone else seated at the table—incredibly it was another man wearing a wig and a monocle!
“Did you, Mr. Blemish, see not one, but two bewigged men?” whispered Blight.
“Yes,” whispered Blemish. “Yes, I did. Did you recognize the other bewigged man, Mr. Blight?”
“Regrettably, no.”
But you, Reader, would have recognized the man. So would Horton. For it was none other than Captain Splinterlock, leader of the Shipless Pirates. Ah, how differently things would have worked out if they had but known who the man was.
They strained their ears as best they could and heard this conversation:
“Smedlap, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Luther, “I am Monsieur Smedlap and you must be—”
“Hush!” hissed the mystery man. “My name is known to every constable, judge, and hangman from here to Cape Horn!”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I must congratulate you, young man, on the high quality of your disguise. Not only do the long locks of hair conceal your identity, but they are also very Fashionable.”
The mystery man continued. “Well, Mr. Smedlap, I received your letter—which showed very sloppy penmanship and spelling by the way—and I’ve come a long way to meet you here tonight. I hope it will be worth my while.”
“Yes,” said Luther, “it certainly will be. Your task is simple. Your reward great!”
The stable boys’ eyes grew wider and wider as they listened to Luther begin the most outrageous string of bald-faced lies they had ever heard:
“Tomorrow night at Smugwick Manor there will be a costume ball. A noted traitor to the Queen will be there.”
“Traitor?” said the mystery man, sounding doubtful.
“Yes,” said Luther. “She will be dressed as Little Bo-peep.”
“Bo-peep?” said the mystery man, sounding even more doubtful.
“I need you and your men to kidnap her, since she cannot be arrested for various important but top-secret reasons.”
“Top-secret reasons?” said the mystery man, sounding so doubtful that Luther began to squirm uncomfortably and scratch under his wig. “Are you certain that this is an honorable task?”
“Er, yes?” said Luther.
“It had better be,” said the mystery man, “or I’ll have the honor of making you walk the plank.” The mystery man laughed. The deep, ugly rumble covered Blemish’s and Blight’s arms with goose bumps. Luther’s, too.
“Now,” said the mystery man, “do you have what you promised in your letter? Do you have the Lump?”
“Yes, I have it.”
“Let me see it!”
“Not here, but somewhere no one else could ever find it. I’ll give it to you right after the ball tomorrow night.”
“You’d better, boy, you’d better!”
Luther scratched under his wig again.
“I did want to add just one thing,” said Luther. “There’s a kitchen boy who’s been causing some trouble. I thought maybe you could—”
“No,” said the mystery man. “Kitchen boys cost extra. A lot extra. They often turn out to be plucky little heroes with hearts of gold and a grim determination to see justice done.”
“Oh, forget it then,” growled Luther, who felt he was already paying too much. “I’ll take care of him myself.”
Blemish and Blight looked at each other in horror.
“Luther’s after Horton!” whispered Blemish.
“This calls for all due expediency!” whispered Blight.
They ran back to Siegfried, clambered on, and shouted “Giddyap!” The mighty stallion, sensing their urgency, gave a wild snort, shook his flowing mane, and hurtled off in the wrong direction.
In Which Horton Gets Ready for the Ball . . .
All the servants were up late, getting everything just as M’Lady Luggertuck wanted it.
The banisters were burnished. The rug fringes were combed. The strange old man who lived inside the Leftmost Turret was bathed. (An Unprecedented Marvel, by the way.)
One by one the servants finished their tasks and went to bed. Soon Horton stood alone at his sink. Finally, as the grouchy kitchen clock clonked twelve times, he finished polishing the last piece of the Luggertuck Silver—an enormous cheese platter as long as a tall man and as wide as a fat one.
Tiredness nagged at his eyes and a numbness grabbed at his brain. But he could not go to bed yet.
For Horton had a plan, too. He meant to make good on his whispered words to Celia. He meant to go to the ball.
Yes, yes, he knew that he would have to bend the rules a bit here, since he didn’t have an invitation and, in fact, would be totally unwelcome in every way conceivable.
But Horton was undergoing a Loosening of his own. He had already broken several rules—talking to Celia, searching for Bump, tricking Neversly out of the key—and he regretted it not at all.
Perhaps, he began to realize, not every preposterous pronouncement of M’Lady Luggertuck needed to be obeyed. Nor every tyrannical decree of Miss Neversly. Nor every unwritten law of propriety that prevented kitchen boys from befriending young ladies.
Anyway, what did he need with an invitation? He was already inside the manor, after all. The only thing he needed was a costume that made him totally unrecognizable.
And he knew just where to find it.
He lit a candle, climbed the stairs, and turned the glass doorknob of Lord Emberly’s study.
It was empty. He had hoped the kindly old man would be there. But since he wasn’t, Horton decided he would borrow what he needed anyway. Surely Lord Emberly would not mind.
Horton used his candle stump to light Lord Emberly’s fancy monkey lamp.
Then he dug through the trunk. Yes, just as he remembered—an ornate Oriental costume with a grinning white mask. It had been a gift to Lord Emberly from a certain lovely young actress in the Mount Fuji Theatrical Company. Bittersweet thoughts of this young actress still danced through Lord Emberly’s memories, but that was one story he had not chosen to share with Horton.
Horton wrapped the silk robes around the mask and carefully tucked it all under his grubby jacket.
He left the room, went upstairs to the attic, and hid the costume under the flimsy mattress on his cot. This made sleeping even less comfortable than usual, but he didn’t care. He was too excited. He would see Celia the next day. He went to sleep happy, which was quite rare.
How sad, then, to have to tell you that at the very moment that Horton was searching the trunk, Luther Luggertuck was returning from his meeting with Splinterlock in the village.
Luther saw the window of Lord Emberly’s study aglow with the light of the monkey lamp.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “I thought I was the only one who went sneaking around where I don’t belong in the middle of the night.”
He decided to investigate. He arrived just
in time to peep through the keyhole—there certainly is a lot of keyhole peeping in this story, isn’t there, Reader?—to see Horton taking the gown and mask.
Then he hid in the shadows as Horton left the room and carried the costume up to the servants’ attic.
“I’m certainly glad I didn’t pay that pirate to get rid of the kitchen boy,” Luther thought to himself, giddy with black joy. “I’ll let that fat detective do it for me for free.”
In Which Lies Are Told . . .
The next morning—the dawn of the day of the ball—Portnoy St. Pomfrey was just lifting the sweet golden goodness of his fifth anchovy-stuffed deviled egg to his lips when Luther burst into the breakfast room.
“Mr. St. Pomfrey! The thief has struck again!”
St. Pomfrey jumped in his chair and dropped another eggy bit onto his suit. His nerves were as tight as harpsichord strings, and Luther’s announcement hit a ringy, keyless chord.
For the first time in his career, St. Pomfrey felt unsure of his abilities. Things kept getting stolen and he was making no progress, though he frequently told the Luggertucks the opposite.
Sir, M’Lady, Montgomery, and the colonel, who were also seated at the table, jumped, too.
“Oh no, not my collection of Pewter Chickens!” shrieked M’Lady Luggertuck.
Luther was momentarily taken aback by this. He hadn’t been prepared for such a stupid statement, even from his mother. Even he wouldn’t bother stealing those stupid chickens.
“No! Much worse, Mother. My costume. My costume for the ball. My beautiful Oriental gown that I ordered from London at great expense.”
Are we surprised, Reader, that he stood there and lied and pretended to cry? No, we are not.
“Are there any clues, motives, footprints, ink stains, paint smears, or paper trails?” inquired St. Pomfrey hopefully, even desperately.
“Only that a footman saw one of the kitchen boys in the hall near my room,” lied Luther.
“Aha!” shouted St. Pomfrey.
“But surely you don’t think that a kitchen boy would have stolen it and hidden it up in the servants’ quarters, do you?” asked Luther, with a syrupy tone that he had learned from listening to his mother talk to his father.
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