by J. P. Martin
Uncle bought a lot of things including a number of boxes of Jumping Bean Rusks. The One-Armed Badger was soon so laden that Uncle did not think it safe for him to carry the provisions down the slope, so Cadcoon lowered them to him by ropes. They saw no further signs of Beaver Hateman and it was not long before they were home.
Late that evening Cadcoon sent them a little poem describing the day’s adventures. It was beautifully written on violet parchment in yellowish ink, and was very long – at least twenty verses.
The Old Monkey began to read it aloud to the others.
“I was washing in gruel the works of my clock
For the thing was inclined to go slow,
When I heard at the door a thunderous knock
And a voice bellowed loud: ‘Bring out dough!’
“I went to my little side window and pulled
My panther-skin curtains aside.
A thumb and four fingers closed tight on my nose.
‘Bring me money – or grub,’ the voice cried.
“‘Bring me sausage and cakes,’ repeated that voice,
‘Bring me buns, or your nose I shall nip—’”
At this point Uncle began to snore. He does not like poetry, and he had had a very heavy day.
NINE
Cadcoon’s Sale
IN THE EARLY hours of next morning Uncle was awakened from a refreshing sleep by the Old Monkey.
“There’s a big blaze, sir! I’m afraid that Cadcoon’s Store is on fire.”
Uncle bundled himself into a dressing-gown and looked out of the window. On the top of Cadcoon’s hill there was a blaze that looked like an erupting volcano.
“That must be Cadcoon’s Store,” said Uncle. “It’s doomed, that is quite clear. There is hardly any water on that hill.”
As they watched, the flames grew higher and higher till they lit the whole countryside. Then there was a tremendous outburst of flames and sparks, and gradually the fire began to die down.
“Oh, sir, what can we do?” asked the Old Monkey, anxiously.
“We’ll go and see if there is anything to be done for Cadcoon himself,” said Uncle, “but the store has gone, I’m afraid.”
While they were dressing, Cadcoon crept over the drawbridge. His neat suit was blackened, and his face woebegone and grimy.
“Oh, sir,” he cried, as soon as he saw Uncle, “this is a sad night’s work! Everything’s gone up in flames. My panther-skin curtains gone! Not a rag left!”
It was too much for the little man, and he laid his head on the table and sobbed. Uncle, however, was able to cheer him.
“We’ve got some panther-skin curtains in our furniture department and you can have them,” he said.
Cadcoon was overjoyed. “Oh, sir, this is too good of you. Are you sure you can spare them?”
“Panther-skin curtains are rare,” said Uncle, “but I can fix you up all right.”
Thus encouraged, Cadcoon took an early breakfast, and Uncle gave him a glass of Sharpener Cordial. Then he began to look better.
“Somebody set it on fire,” he said, “and I know who that somebody was. It was Beaver Hateman. But the difficulty is to prove it.”
The cat Goodman, who had been rubbing himself against Cadcoon’s legs and trying to comfort him, said quickly:
“It was Beaver Hateman, right enough. There’s an old rat that brings his friends in from the country, and I thought I’d trace him home last night. D’you know where he lives? I will say he’s got a first-class hole up there on a sunny hillside with a good view—”
“Go on,” said Uncle.
“This hole is not far from your shop, Mr Cadcoon. I didn’t want to climb that hill twice in one day, but I had to trace that wily old rat and stop him bringing his relations down to Homeward. In front of me, in the dark, I could hear heavy breathing, and soon I caught up with Beaver Hateman riding the Wooden-Legged Donkey and carrying a tin of petrol!”
“Ah, a tin of petrol!” said Uncle. “Useful evidence, Goodman!”
“But it doesn’t prove anything and my house has gone!” sighed Cadcoon. “Still,” he said, cheering up a little, “the safes are still there and some of the food in them may be eatable, in fact freshly roasted. I think I’ll have a sale, and with the money I get, and my savings, I’ll start building again. I’ve got the panther-skin curtains, anyway, thanks to you. That’s a good start.”
Then he became downcast again.
“But how can we let people know in time?” he wailed.
“Leave it to me,” said Uncle.
He turned to the Old Monkey.
“Ring up for the traction engine,” he told him.
“But, sir, it’ll never get up Cadcoon’s hill.”
“We’ll take it through Badgertown to the foot of the hill – and keep sounding the hooter; and I will tell the crowd through a megaphone where we are going. I object to advertising,” he added, “but this is a good cause.”
They set off almost at once. The sight of Cadcoon, grimy and singed, on the traction engine beside Uncle filled the badgers with sympathy, and soon they were flocking up the hill to the smouldering ruins.
When Cadcoon unlocked his safes he found, as he had thought, that some of his food was splendidly roasted. The butter, of course, had melted and run about, but Cadcoon scooped up several buckets of it. It would be splendid for cooking.
Just as the crowd was eagerly bidding for the goods, Uncle heard the Old Monkey gasp:
“For shame!”
Uncle looked round and saw Beaver Hateman, Flabskin, and old Nailrod Hateman stroll coolly up.
“You take my breath away!” said Uncle. “Setting Mr Cadcoon’s shop on fire and then daring to come and bid at his sale!”
“Who says I set the place on fire?”
“My cat Goodman saw you going up the slope towards the shop with a can of petrol last night!”
“Your cat!” hissed Beaver Hateman. “A nice witness! He’s a common thief, a contemptible fish-sneak! All you’ve got is one thief as a witness. But I can bring scores, hundreds, to say I was nowhere near Cadcoon’s last night! Come on, Flabskin, where was I?”
Flabskin scratched his head in a horrible sort of way and said:
“You were down at Oily Joe’s clearing out the till!”
“That’s no good,” said Beaver Hateman. “Let’s have another witness. Here’s my father, dear old Nailrod Senior. Now you can believe a father when he speaks about his son, can’t you?”
“I can believe some fathers,” said Uncle.
“Come on, Dad,” said Beaver Hateman. “What was I doing last night?”
Old Nailrod thought for a while.
“My son Beaver spent the whole of last night reading a good book,” he said at last. “He only left his chair once, to get a lemon biscuit from the sideboard.”
“You’re lying,” said Uncle indignantly.
“I can bring lots of witnesses!” said Beaver Hateman.
“I don’t want to hear them,” said Uncle.
All the same he wished he had one more witness to confirm Goodman’s story. Just then the Respectable Horses appeared. There are four of them, three sisters and a brother, and they are always neat and polite. Their black coats looked very shiny against the ash and muddle of the burnt-out store.
“Ha, ha,” said Hateman, smiling falsely at them, “here are my friends, the Respectable Horses. They won’t believe the lies you’ve been telling about me.”
“I’m sorry to say, Mr Hateman,” said Mayhave Crunch, the eldest of the horses, “that what we have to say may be displeasing to you, but we must tell the truth.”
“Why?” asked Flabskin.
“Shut up!” said Beaver Hateman, hastily.
“Continue, Mr Crunch,” said Uncle.
“Last evening we were taking a pan of warm boiled oats to an elderly mule who is ill with influenza. He lives just below here. We found him shivering violently and with very little hay to warm him. He said that just before
we arrived Mr Hateman had ridden up to his stable door and demanded dry hay. In spite of our friend’s protests Mr Hateman piled the hay on the back of the Wooden-Legged Donkey and led the way to the store carrying a can of petrol.”
“There’s gratitude for you!” said Beaver Hateman. “I’ve never been against you horses, never hit you or thrown anything at you, and this is your return. All right! I’ve done with mercy after this. I’m going to fight with the gloves off!”
“Have you ever had them on?” asked Uncle.
“Yes, I have,” said Hateman. “I’ve never done half the bad things I wanted to, but I’m going to start, and quickly too!”
Before Uncle could guard himself the ruffian had picked up a bucket of warm melted butter and thrown it in his face.
Unfortunately Cadcoon happened at this moment to be in his largest safe getting out some goods for the sale. Like lightning Beaver Hateman slammed the door, shutting Cadcoon in. As he made a rush for the path he also pushed Goodman into a vat of warm vinegar, tripped up Gubbins, and threw a jar of salad-dressing over Mayhave Crunch.
Then he was off, leaving confusion behind him.
Uncle was shouting and spluttering. Gubbins was staggering about, half stunned. Poor Goodman struggled out of the vinegar vat, his fur clinging to him. But the worst off was Cadcoon, shut in the safe. He was pounding on the door and shouting.
“Attend to Cadcoon first,” said Uncle. “The smell of all those roasted provisions must be stifling. Unless we release him he will be suffocated. Goodman, go as fast as you can to Cowgill’s works for the oxy-acetylene blowpipe!”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodman, smartly, and was off down the path.
“The way he runs!” said the Old Monkey admiringly. “His fur will be dry before he gets there!”
Uncle, regardless of his own discomfort, went to the safe and tried to encourage Cadcoon. It’s very hard to speak to anyone in a safe, the door fits so closely.
“How are you, my friend?” roared Uncle.
“I can hardly breathe!” came the faint reply.
“We’ve sent for Cowgill!” Uncle told him. “Have courage and eat a little of the provisions to keep up your strength!”
But Cadcoon did not answer. They thought they heard a thump inside the safe as if somebody had fallen over; then there was silence.
“This is very worrying,” said Uncle, and added to the Old Monkey: “Is Cowgill in sight yet?”
The Old Monkey went to look over the edge of the platform and reported that Cowgill and his men were on the steep hill path already.
“But they’re having an awful struggle with the equipment, sir,” he said.
“Go and help, then,” said Uncle, “and take Gubbins.”
As soon as the blowpipe was hoisted on to the platform they set to work and the lock was soon cut out and little Cadcoon, very white and in a dead faint, was lifted into the fresh air.
There was no water so they had to fan him with their hats.
Luckily Uncle found he had a box of Faintness Producer for Burglars in his pocket. He put two tablets in Cadcoon’s mouth and the little man opened his eyes almost immediately.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re all right,” said Uncle, “and in your own home. Your own ruin, I should say.”
“How did I get locked in the safe?”
“Need I say?” said Uncle. “It was Beaver Hateman.”
When Cadcoon heard this, in spite of his weakness, he seemed to expand to twice his size, his hair bristled, and he dashed to the ground two great jars of pickled cabbage that were standing by. This seemed to relieve his feelings for he grew calmer and turned to Uncle.
“Sir,” he said, “I owe you an apology. Once, I must own, when you kicked that man up I thought, privately, that you were a little hard on him, but now I see my mistake. You were too lenient, far too merciful.”
Words failed Cadcoon. In spite of the medicine he was still weak.
“He will pay for his atrocious action,” said Uncle; “and now let us all sit down and revive ourselves with a meal. Cadcoon, lie on that rug and have a drink of Sharpener Cordial.”
In spite of everything they had quite a jolly meal. The air on the top of Cadcoon’s hill was fresh and gave them a good appetite, and the food Uncle had bought at the sale tasted really splendid.
Next day they went on with the sale and it was quite a success. Cadcoon got enough money to start rebuilding, and he went to stay with Uncle till he felt really better.
TEN
They Go to Lost Clinkers
WHEN UNCLE CAME downstairs a day or so later he found Goodman reading the paper, and also eagerly eyeing a wasp that was flying round the big treacle tub that stands in the middle of the table.
As soon as Uncle appeared he took a flying leap and jumped on to his shoulders, purring loudly.
“Good sport at Badfort this morning, sir,” he said. “The police are there!”
“Not before time,” said Uncle.
“Beaver Hateman’s been having meals on credit at a little restaurant run by a chap called Winkworth. When at last Winkworth asked for his money Beaver Hateman and Flabskin dashed out, so he sent the police from Badgertown to arrest them. And there they are, twenty of them, great big chaps they are—”
“Don’t talk so fast,” said Uncle. “Calm down a little.”
“Well, there they are waiting for him to come out. That’s all, sir.”
“They’ll wait a long time,” said Uncle. “But I tell you what, we’ll have a day off to go exploring. It’s pretty evident Beaver Hateman won’t leave Badfort for a while, so we’ll just have a trip I’ve long wanted to make, to Lost Clinkers.”
The Old Monkey clapped his paws. He loves going to new places.
Will Shudder was glad to go because he wasn’t feeling very well. One of the stoves in the library had started leaking and a day in the country was just what he needed.
There are cheap trips to Lost Clinkers on the Badgertown Railway, so Uncle sent Goodman to get the tickets and to inquire the time of starting. The tickets were only a penny each and this included lunch on the train. Not much of one – only watercress, melons and a few biscuits – but the badgers love these things.
“The stationmaster has put on a special trip for you, sir,” said Goodman when he came back. “Seven hundred badgers are going on the afternoon trip, and he thought you might like a quiet look round before they arrived.”
“Very obliging of him,” said Uncle. “I shall not forget his thoughtful kindness. We’ll start at once.”
They didn’t have to go to the Badgertown Station, for the stationmaster had the train run right up into the siding outside Uncle’s lard department. So they all climbed in and glided off. When the ticket collector came round Uncle gave him three pounds to pay for the special train and also a threepenny bit for himself.
The scenery was very pretty at first. There were lots of woods, with great purple flowers as big as shields, and some ponds full of yellow fishes, but the nearer they got to Lost Clinkers the uglier it became.
Lost Clinkers is really an old deserted gasworks; it’s not much to look at but the air there is very good. There were great piles of cinders and rubble and everything was black with soot. At last the train began to run beneath blackened arches and between bluish pools that looked as though they contained chemicals, and finally drew up in the very yard of the gasworks.
“I’m specially glad to come today, sir,” said Will Shudder to Uncle, “because I have a friend living at Lost Clinkers – a writing master called Benskin. He gets a free room in the gasworks, you see.”
“Rather an awkward place to get pupils, isn’t it?” said Uncle.
“Yes, he has to travel round to other places giving lessons.”
At first when they got out of the train they couldn’t see anybody, but soon they found the writing master frying some small fish over a cinder fire.
Shudder introduced him to Uncle.
&nb
sp; “I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Benskin. “I’ve been intending to come to Homeward just in case there was someone who would like to take lessons in fancy and copperplate writing.”
“Come by all means,” said Uncle. “I shan’t require you myself. My signature is well known and I don’t intend to alter it. Most of my business letters and accounts are done by the Old Monkey and this cat.”
The writing master looked deeply interested.
“That’s the first cat I’ve ever seen that can write,” he said.
“Then there’s Cloutman here, a fair writer, but he holds his pen like a pistol. Gubbins is very slow. They could both do with a polish up.”
“Oh, I’ll come, sir,” said Benskin eagerly. “I have to seize every opportunity. I earn my living through my writing desk. That reminds me, Shudder wrote a little poem about my work. I liked it very much and had it hung up in my office. Just have a look in. I should like you to see my specimens of fancy writing too.”
Uncle went with him to the Gasworks Office. Benskin had his writing desk in the window, which was a large one. There were some splendid specimens of his work. He can draw swans, deer and geese without taking his pen from the paper. He writes the most beautiful copperplate, and can sign his name with a sort of ornamental flourish that takes half a sheet of paper, all curves and bows. Hanging on the wall in a neat frame was the poem to which he had referred.
It was called ‘Prepositions’. He read it aloud slowly to Uncle with great emphasis and making many graceful movements as he did so.
PREPOSITIONS
“He earned his beef through his writing desk,
And toiled in the twilight dank,
With pen of gold and flourish bold,
A scribe of the loftiest rank.
“He kept his beef in his writing desk,
And fastened it with a lock –
A solid hunk of the savoury junk,
With suet firm as a rock.
“He took his beef from his writing desk
And laid on the lid his prize,
While a haggard man to his window ran
