by J. P. Martin
And looked in with envious eyes.
“He carved his beef by his writing desk,
On the oaken window board,
And with glittering steel, and fork like an eel,
He served forth his flavourous hoard.
“He ate his beef on his writing desk—”
“What do you mean – ‘fork like an eel’?” interrupted Uncle.
“He whirls it round and then wriggles it in, like this,” said Benskin, demonstrating with his pen, “but you must admit, sir, that it’s a good poem. Lots of people don’t know what a preposition is. So, when I give writing lessons, I often give this poem as a copy, and so I teach writing and grammar at the same time.”
The cat Goodman had been eagerly listening to this, and all at once he burst out:
“Oh, I think that’s splendid, Mr Benskin. I’ve often wanted to learn grammar. I can read all right, taught myself at the wizard’s. He got lots of letters from people, and, having rather bad sight, he used to call me in. ‘Now, Goodman,’ he would say, ‘look at that letter. Tell me what that word is. Write it out, you fool, if you can’t read it! Make a copy of the words!’ So I found myself writing out words which I didn’t know. It was more like drawing than writing at first. Then I learned to read a few of them. At last I learned to read jolly well, and Blenkinsop often got me to read him spells from his wizard’s book, but grammar I never learned. It must be splendid!”
“Not half so good as writing,” said Benskin. “Here, just let me see you sign your name.”
The cat took the pen and signed his name in bold but rather spluttering letters, CANUTE GOODMAN.
“So that’s your name, CANUTE?” said Benskin curiously. “I must say you write extraordinarily well for a cat, but not like me.”
He took a fresh sheet of paper and a gold pen, and first wrote ‘Canute Goodman’ in exquisite copperplate. Then he surrounded the whole name with graceful flourishes, birds, flowers and scrolls. The cat watched him with its eyes nearly bursting out of its head.
“Oh, I should love to do it like that!” he said.
“You can learn,” said Benskin, “if you try!”
“Oh, I’ll try. You’ll find me at it all the time.”
Uncle was getting tired of this conversation, and here he interrupted.
“I have no objection,” he said, “to my cat having a reasonable amount of education, but I don’t want it to become a craze. He has heavy and responsible duties day by day, and I say to you, Goodman, don’t overdo things. Don’t get mad about things. Steady must be your motto.”
Goodman seemed a bit over-awed, but this didn’t last long, for he caught sight of a rat running along a beam in the gasworks, and rushed after it so fast that they could just see a white streak in the air.
Uncle smiled. “And now,” he said, “we are here not on business but on pleasure. I propose first of all that we have lunch in the retort house.”
It was nice and cool in the retort house, and the One-Armed Badger soon had ready a splendid lunch, including more than twenty bottles of ginger ale and raspberryade. When they had drunk these, Uncle threw all the empty bottles at a great iron pillar in the corner. Then they turned on a few taps. It was very interesting. One of them sent out a great flood of greenish, evil-smelling liquid at such a rate that they began to think they would be washed out of the retort house. Then it stopped, and from the tap came a long groaning sound mixed with whistles, and a loud TAP, TAP, TAP.
“There’s someone in that tank!” said Uncle. They went and examined it but could find nobody. It was very mysterious. Then, all at once, Uncle noticed that the cat Goodman, who had been absent during lunch, had now turned up, and his fur was streaked with the green stuff.
“You rascal!” shouted Uncle. “You’ve been rapping inside that tank and trying to fool us!”
The cat blushed.
“Sorry, sir. I came across that tank when I was chasing the rat, and all at once it began to empty. When the water had all gone I thought it would be a bit of fun to groan and whistle and rap inside a bit. I only did it for fun, sir.”
“Look here, Goodman,” said Uncle, sharply, “this habit of joking is growing upon you; what you did wasn’t funny at all! I thought for the moment that some unfortunate person had been put in that tank by Beaver Hateman. This sort of thing has got to stop!”
“I won’t do it again, sir!” said Goodman meekly.
“You’d better not, and for a punishment you can go without lunch.”
The cat looked hungrily at the remains of the feast but said nothing. However, the Old Monkey secretly gave him a meat pie, and he was soon rushing round again as full of beans as ever.
Then they walked over some slag heaps to a big reservoir and had a good swim. It was very interesting swimming there because there are great big pipes and iron ladders in the reservoir, and a big iron thing in the middle like a buoy. They all climbed on this and then paddled it round the reservoir. After this they climbed to the top of a rusty iron tower by means of a spiral staircase, and had some singing in the open air. They sang several choruses, and then Uncle cleared his throat and said: “I’ve half a mind to give you a solo.”
Everyone was deeply interested in this, for Uncle had never sung to them before.
“Please, sir, do sing!” begged the Old Monkey, his eyes shining. He loves singing, even by the Badfort crowd; and now, to hear his idol Uncle sing – this was rapture indeed.
“How I’d like to hear you!” said Goodman, running round in circles to show how pleased he was.
“I’m not much of a singer myself,” said Cloutman in a heavy dogged voice, “but a bit of really good solo singing makes me feel fine.”
“It would be a great pleasure to a humble acquaintance, sir, if you would favour us with a song,” said the writing master in his polite refined voice.
In the end Uncle was persuaded.
“Don’t expect anything very great,” he said. “I’m badly out of practice, and shouting at Hateman hasn’t done my voice any good. However, to please you, I’ll try.”
Uncle has a very small singing voice. Everybody was surprised. It sounded so strange coming from such a big creature, and he sings in rather a mincing way, very different from his usual thundering tones. They were all amazed.
This was the song:
“Flowers in my garden grow
of which gardeners brag;
But the sweetest flower I know
Is a daisy on the slag.
“Honour to the daisies
On the slag-heap high;
Let us sing their praises
Till they reach the sky!
“They say the loveliest flowers cling
Beneath an Alpine crag;
But the sweetest flower I sing
Is the daisy on the slag.
“Honour to the daisies—”
The Old Monkey broke down at this point and was led out weeping, but he soon came back so as not to miss anything.
To the great delight of the whole assembly Uncle was persuaded to sing the four verses through three times more.
“Well,” said Cloutman when, finally, he stopped, “I call that singing!”
“Singing,” said Gubbins. “Sigismund Hateman is nothing to it!”
“Allow me to say,” said the writing master, “that I have heard the greatest artists, but, without any flattery, I should put your singing by the side of that of Signor Maletti of Trieste, and I think the Signor would have to say that he was defeated!”
Uncle was very pleased at these comments, and he promised them presents when they got back.
“But where’s Will Shudder?” he asked.
Shudder had not been well enough to join in the swimming or to climb the tower, but he had been lying on the top of a big slag heap near by and drawing the keen air into his lungs.
“I’m here, sir,” he called down, “and I heard your singing; it sounded so faint and ethereal and fairy-like. It was really beautiful!”
Uncle glowed with pleasure and promised to give Shudder a wireless set when they got back. This seemed to make Shudder feel much better, and he was also delighted to hear that Uncle had invited the writing master to stay at Homeward for a few days.
By this time it was getting near sunset.
They were looking out from the top of the rusty iron tower when they saw the seven hundred badgers arriving from the excursion train which, as it was such a long one, had had to stop a little way down the track.
They were striding out and singing their marching song:
“On we go, watching the setting sun;
Tomorrow we will do it, if today it can’t be done!”
A big badger was marching in front giving them the first ‘On we go’ in a tremendous bass voice.
“The afternoon trip doesn’t give them much time,” said Uncle, “but I suppose they can manage a hasty look round the gasworks, and a quick dip in the tank before they roll up for the train.”
When it was getting dark the seven hundred took some collecting from all the corners of the gasworks, but at last they were all found.
Also the cat Goodman had done something to make up for his tricks in the empty tank.
While running after the rat he had found ten sacks of dog biscuits in a boarded-up room behind a furnace. Uncle left a note to say he would pay the owner in full if he presented himself at Homeward, and he distributed the biscuits to the badgers on the return journey. They were immensely pleased, and the train resounded with song and merriment till they pulled up outside Homeward.
As he had promised, Uncle gave good presents to all the members of his party.
Will Shudder spent the rest of the evening trying out his new wireless set. The worst of it was that he could only get Badfort. There is a wretched little broadcasting station on the roof of Badfort which seldom works, but it was going that night and Shudder heard the following:
News Summary (Copyright).
Weather: Rotten.
Base accusations were levelled today against B. Hateman Esq., B.A., and a strong party of police from Badgertown have placed themselves outside the main entrance of his residence at Badfort. This unprovoked and grossly unfair action has made Mr Hateman seriously ill, and he is at present confined to his bed.
Public indignation runs high.
Mr Hateman asks us to state that, as he has heard that many sympathizers desire to send gifts, these should be sent
c/o J. Jellytussle Esq.,
The Bathing Lodge,
Nr Badfort.
Ham, vegetables, biscuits, Leper Jack of good quality will be acceptable; in fact anything can be sent, but not to the front door please, as the police are still there.
ELEVEN
They Set Out for the Dwarfs’ Drinking Fountains
NEXT DAY ALL still seemed quiet. In the library Mr Benskin was executing designs with his golden pen, and Goodman and the One-Armed Badger were watching him. The One-Armed couldn’t write at all, but he was a most painstaking creature and eager to learn.
“It’s about time I went to see the drinking fountains,” said Uncle, yawning. “I’ve heard they’re not being kept in very good repair. An ungrateful lot, those dwarfs. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with them. As Badfort is more or less besieged by police I think this is a good day to go.”
Uncle is very proud of the 144 drinking fountains he erected for the dwarfs in Lion Tower when he first became rich. They are mentioned on page 11,564 of Dr Lyre’s History of Lion Tower, only three pages from the end, and you will remember that there is a large painting of Uncle opening them in his hall at Homeward.
“Please, sir, I don’t want to miss my writing lesson,” said Goodman anxiously. “I’m having one after the One-Armed.”
“Very well, you can stay,” said Uncle, but he was a bit surprised. The cat was certainly mad on writing at the moment.
“Can Mig come with us, sir?” asked the Old Monkey.
“Good idea,” said Uncle. “He’s been stuck in the kitchen a good deal lately. And Will Shudder had better come too. He still looks rather pale.”
While they were getting ready Butterskin Mute arrived with a large pumpkin and a couple of splendid beetroot under his arm.
“What about you, Mute?” asked Uncle. “Would you like a look at the dwarfs’ drinking fountains?”
“Oh yes, please, sir,” said Mute, delighted. “Can I bring my rake?”
“By all means,” said Uncle. “We might find it very useful. For instance, if the fountains are choked up, a rake would be the very thing for removing rubbish.”
Mute was pleased, as he doesn’t feel really at home without a rake.
Wizard Blenkinsop happened to call to see them that morning, and when he heard what expedition was planned he suggested he might do some magic and find them a shorter way.
“Splendid,” said Uncle. “The drinking fountains are a long way off, through Lion Tower. That’s why I haven’t been able to keep a proper eye on them.”
Blenkinsop got out his pocket spell-book and turned to section 218.
How To Find A Short Cut to Any Given Place by Magic.
Tie a bundle of red leaves with ginkle-string. Then mix with ashes from a fire lit by a lunatic’s aunt.
Salve.
Add wire from a green-eyed child’s fish-hook.
Limmer.
Wash residue in tears of a broken-hearted goat, then stir in a kangle-pot with scob liver.
Take residue and lay it on a flat warm pavement. It will lie in the form of a rough arrow and indicate route.
“That’s all very well,” said Uncle; “but these things will take a good deal of getting together. ‘Ashes from a fire lit by a lunatic’s aunt.’ I don’t know such a person.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Goodman. “Mrs Smallweed might do. I was in her shop the other day buying linseed. It was on a top shelf behind some rat-traps. Well, we got it down, and—”
“Oh, buck up,” said Uncle. “Is she a lunatic’s aunt or not?”
“Well, she’s got a nephew who comes to light her fire and I heard her say to him, ‘You’re nuts, Willie.’”
“I suppose that’ll do,” said Uncle. “Hurry up and get some.”
“What about my writing lesson?” asked Goodman.
“Look,” said Uncle, “you’re here to help me first. Writing lessons come second. Get those ashes, and no rat-catching or foolery on the way.”
Goodman streaked off to Mrs Smallweed’s shop which is halfway between Homeward and Badfort.
“Now,” said Uncle, “what else do we want?”
“We’ve got red leaves,” said Blenkinsop; “there are some on that tree over there, but I haven’t got a ginkle-string to tie them with.”
“What is a ginkle-string?” asked Uncle testily.
“A ginkle-string is a long stretched-out piece of rag that’s been used for cleaning pots and pans.”
“Well, that one’s easy. Bring one from the kitchen, Mig!”
The dwarf Mig was off like a shot.
“Now what’s next on the list? – Wire from a green-eyed child’s fish-hook? That’ll take a bit of finding.”
“No, it won’t,” replied Blenkinsop. “It’s a wizard’s standard ingredient, and I always carry at least one with me.”
He opened his pocket book, and took out a short piece of wire.
“There you are,” he said.
Uncle was now becoming interested. He had never done wizard work before, and it’s very fascinating when you get into it.
“Salve! What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s a professional term,” said Blenkinsop. “It means tie together loosely, roll in warm butter, and shake.”
By this time Goodman had arrived back with the ashes, so they were able to salve, and then, with the addition of the wire from the green-eyed child’s fish-hook, to limmer.
Limmering takes a bit of doing.
You take all the things for the spell and put them in
a cardboard tube. You then blow them out three times while stamping on the ground. It sounds simple, but it’s got to be done at the exact moment. However, it was done at last, and the residue, a shabby-looking bundle, was ready to be washed in the tears of a broken-hearted goat.
The difficulty was to find such a creature. There were lots of goats around, but none of them looked broken-hearted. Even Nailrod Hateman’s goat, which had good reason for misery, only looked fierce.
They were quite at a loss, till the cat Goodman, who knows everybody, said he knew of a little tender-hearted goat who grazed secretly on the lawn outside Homeward. He went out, gave her a small pinch and told her to blub, promising to reward her with a bundle of choice hay if she did so. She was soon blubbering away, though her tears were hardly enough to wet the residue thoroughly. However they dampened the bundle, and Blenkinsop thought that would do.
Then they needed a kangle-pot. Blenkinsop had two or three at home, but it was too far to go and fetch them.
“I came across a pot in the library the other day, sir,” said Will Shudder. “It looks to me remarkably like a kangle-pot.”
“Please fetch it, Shudder,” said Uncle.
A kangle-pot is a small red pot with leather handles, and with curious figures engraved on it.
“Oh, that’s a first-class kangle-pot,” said Blenkinsop in a discontented voice when he saw it. He was rather jealous, for kangle-pots are extremely scarce, and yet absolutely necessary for wizard work, and this was a unique specimen.
The next stage of the spell was a hard one.
A scob is a savagely biting fish, eaten only by the Badfort crowd. To get scob’s liver seemed very difficult.
“Won’t the spell work without scob’s liver?” asked Uncle. Blenkinsop laughed bitterly.
“Really, sir, I’m surprised you should ask such a question. It shows how little you know about wizard work. We might manage at a pinch without ginkle-string or red leaves, but never, never, never without scob’s liver.”
“I think I can buy some,” said Goodman. “I’m not certain, but I’m nearly sure.”
