by J. P. Martin
Also Needler was counting the elephants in a dull tired voice which got on Uncle’s nerves.
“Four hundred and sixty-two, four hundred and sixty—”
“What’s all that counting for?” asked Uncle crossly.
“To see how many elephants.”
“There are five hundred,” said Uncle. “It said so on a small notice at the beginning of the avenue. So will you please stop gargling numbers.”
At last they came to a man who was sitting at a table by the side of an elephant statue. Over his head was a board with this inscription:
WISDOM SAGE
Counsellor and General Adviser.
Terms moderate if right, and
immoderate if wrong.
(N.B. Any terms are immoderate if wrong.)
Wisdom Sage was finishing off a good lunch of roast goose and sage-and-onion stuffing.
“Hallo,” he shouted as they approached. “You see here goose stuffed with sage” (pointing at his plate), “and you see here” (pointing to himself) “. . . Sage stuffed with goose!”
He burst into a peal of laughter.
Uncle hardly smiled. He was tired and wanted to get on.
“That’s an old joke, Sage,” he said, “but I’d like to sample your boasted wisdom. How far is it to the end of this everlasting row of elephants?”
“Three hundred yards,” said Sage promptly.
Uncle was getting angry.
“If that was true,” he said, “we could see the Museum from here, and there’s no sign of it!”
“Ha, ha!” said Sage. “It took Blenkinsop a long time to think out this illusion scheme. It’s one of his best.”
“We’ll go on,” said Uncle. “I suppose you want to be paid for this piece of wisdom.”
“Only two-and-sixpence,” said Sage. “If I had been wrong I should have charged you five shillings as wrong advice is always expensive.”
Uncle tossed Sage half-a-crown which he pocketed before going on with his lunch.
They pushed forward, and after half-a-dozen more elephants there appeared to be a change in the air. There was a pearly grey mist ahead of them. Suddenly this lifted, and there, just across a large green lawn, stood the museum.
They stood still, lost in wonder.
“Blenkinsop has excelled himself,” said Uncle at last.
The building was eight-sided, and made of some sort of pink stone. There were blue arches and high green pinnacles, and the front doorway was stupendous, being built of three pink rocks each as big as a house, and shining with silver stars. In spite of being so very solid, it appeared to change as you looked at it. Sometimes the pink stone turned almost green; sometimes the towers became round instead of square.
As they stood watching a tall red tower that seemed to be turning into a colossal palm-tree, Wisdom Sage came up behind them.
“I forgot to give you one opinion,” he said, “but I’ll give it to you now. That girl with you, d’you know what she is? She’s not a girl but a snake, and that’s such a very right opinion that I’ll charge you nothing for it.”
And he vanished into some flowering bushes.
“I don’t like that man,” said Little Liz, “and I’ll go after him and tell him so.”
“If you go back you stay back,” said Uncle.
When they got to the museum entrance they found in the hall a large statue of Uncle playing the bass viol.
Underneath it were these words:
OUR FOUNDER – PATRON OF THE ARTS
Uncle was rather gratified by this, and began to hum one of the tunes he played.
“I must ring up the Maestro,” he said to the Old Monkey. “It’s time I had another music lesson. I’ve been rather pressed for time recently.”
“Oh yes do, sir,” said the Old Monkey, who loves going to Watercress Tower where Uncle’s music master lives with his friend the Little Lion.
Little Liz giggled behind them.
Uncle turned sharply for he hates being laughed at, but the horrid girl seemed to be looking at a stuffed swordfish hanging on the wall.
“Look at that fish!” she said. “Isn’t it lovely? Oh, how I’d like to see that sharp sword go right into Wisdom Sage!”
“You are a very cruel girl!” said Uncle, and determined to get rid of Little Liz the moment they got home. Meanwhile the thing to do was to forget her as much as possible. He bought a Museum Guide, and then, seeing Needler’s eager look, bought another for him.
“For me, sir?” said Needler, his eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, and don’t cry!” said Uncle.
“Just let me say this—” began Needler.
“Now, look, we haven’t time for all that,” said Uncle.
“Magnificent – lavish – noble – astonishing – glorious – gift!” said Needler. He spoke so fast it sounded like one long word. This was clearly the day of his life.
Now they all started to look at the exhibits. It was clear that they were in a very fine museum.
Besides having a Natural History section with stuffed animals in it, there was a zoo with living animals.
Here again Blenkinsop had shown great skill. The animals were always near, and always awake. Uncle had a few cakes in his pocket, and he handed them to his party to give to the animals. Little Liz, of course, ate her portion herself.
In the Museum Guide was written:
To do honour to the Founder’s well-known kindness to animals, no living creatures are kept in this zoo for more than one day. They are then dismissed to their haunts with three days’ ration of choice food. Places in the Museum Zoo are much coveted and there is always a long waiting list of animals ranging from bison to wombats.
“Very gratifying, very gratifying indeed,” said Uncle.
Needler had already got his handkerchief out, but seeing Uncle looking at him hastily put it away again.
They then came to a set of rooms devoted to tableaux of the Founder’s Life. The first of these showed Uncle as a young, hard-up elephant. Then came his first stroke of fortune and rise to wealth and power. No hint of the regrettable bicycle-stealing incident of his youth.
It was very touching. Uncle forgave Needler’s sobs of admiration.
After this they came to a room labelled:
PUBLIC ENEMIES
They were about to go in when Wisdom Sage appeared from the tea-room.
“Just another bit of free advice,” he said. “Note, I say free. Be careful when you go in there. There is no charge for this, so take good heed of what I say. Keep your eyes open!”
“Oh do be careful, sir!” begged the Old Monkey.
On the door was a tablet.
We give here a representation of a horde of repulsive beings who have long infested this neighbourhood. By the illustrious efforts of the Founder their evil doings have generally been foiled, and the people and animals in this area live in peace and prosperity.
Uncle flung the door open.
Inside, on a low platform, stood a waxwork group showing Beaver Hateman and some of his allies. Filljug and Nailrod were a bit shadowy at the back but Hateman, well to the front, dressed in his worst sack suit and holding a duck bomb ready to throw, really looked very life-like.
With Sage’s warning still in his ears, Uncle only took one look and then dropped to the ground.
It was lucky he did so, for the waxwork figure came to life and Beaver Hateman cast the duck bomb at Uncle, using immense force. At the same moment Uncle felt a sharp pain in his leg as Little Liz stuck a skewer into it.
Now the hideous plot was clear. Little Liz had used Uncle’s well-known kindness of heart to lure him to the museum.
“Oh, sir, Little Liz is Hitmouse!” shouted the Old Monkey. “Look out, sir! Look out!”
“Oh, infamy!” sobbed Needler, tears spouting from his eyes.
Trumpeting with rage Uncle charged forward, but the danger was over. Seeing that his duck bomb had missed, and had only splashed harmlessly against the passage wall, Bea
ver Hateman gave an appalling shriek of baffled fury and disappeared down a trapdoor in the floor of the case, and Hitmouse, well, the last they saw of that detestable so-called little girl was the hem of a sack dress vanishing down a ventilator.
Fortunately Uncle was hardly hurt at all. He had a few skewer stabs, but some Magic Ointment, skilfully applied by the Old Monkey, soon put them right.
Needler hung his handkerchief to dry out of a near-by open window. He had been crying so much that his eyes had nearly disappeared.
“Is the danger really past, sir?” he asked. “I’ve hardly any tears left.”
“Good, you won’t need any. All is well,” said Uncle, once more erect and masterful as he turned to Sage.
“Well, Sage,” he said, “your wisdom has saved us from great harm.”
He pulled a bag of gold out of his pocket, for although he usually doesn’t carry much money he had brought some that day to pay for teas, etc.
“Oh, I don’t want anything,” said Sage. “I was so very right I can’t make any charge.”
“Then,” said Uncle, “you will please accept this as a token of our great gratitude.”
“Very well,” replied Sage, “if you put it that way. Goose is dear, and my income is not large. I’m so frequently right.”
“And now,” said Uncle, “let’s go to the tea-room, and have the very best tea they’ve got.”
They soon found the tea-room, an excellent place partly below the museum and looking out on a sunken garden.
The garden kept changing. Some of the roses changed slowly from red to yellow, and some of the bigger flowers actually seemed to come forward and look through the window. In the middle of the lawn was a fountain which sent up a great column of water that curved into a beautiful water-arch. This was big enough to walk under. Now and then pale blue-and-white clouds floated through the garden.
Nine black bears brought in the tea. There were some cakes that almost overpowered you, they were so rich and scented.
While they ate they looked at the postcards Needler had bought. There were two of the outside of the museum and a very good one of the statue of Uncle playing the bass viol.
“Get a couple of those on the way out,” said Uncle to the Old Monkey. “I’d like to send one to my aunt, Miss Maidy, and also one to the Maestro.”
“Shall I bring you some Blenkinsop Buns?” asked one of the bears when they had been eating for a time. “They’re the best of all.”
“By all means,” said Uncle. “Let’s try them.”
Blenkinsop Buns looked like ordinary currant buns, but their taste kept changing. One moment they tasted like raspberry jam, the next like honey, and then like banana ice-cream.
“Oh, sir, can I take a Blenkinsop Bun home to Goodman?” asked the Old Monkey. “He’s missed so much by not coming to the museum.”
“Take one certainly,” said Uncle. “In a way we owe the cat an apology. He was quite right to be so suspicious. To think we were giving shelter to the detestable Hitmouse.”
“The disguise was very cunning, sir,” said the Old Monkey, “but we must be more careful in future.”
NINETEEN
The Great Sale
THE SALE OF bananas and coconuts in aid of aged and distressed badgers which, you’ll remember, Uncle had been asked to open, was about to take place.
The King of the Badgers was organizing it, and it looked as if everybody was giving something, and thousands of people were coming.
Truckloads of bananas and coconuts came in every day. Great traction engines pulling trailers loaded with Whang Eggs, a sort of preserved egg painted red specially loved by aged badgers, arrived almost hourly.
Six motor-coaches had been ordered for the day to bring people from Wolftown. Ivan Koff had postponed a meeting of the Dog-Washers’ League, so that he might give a vote of thanks to Uncle.
Even doubtful characters like Sir Ben Bandit, the financier, Abdullah the Clothes-Peg Merchant and Mother Jones (from Jones’s siding) had sent gifts and promised to come.
The day before the sale the King of the Badgers came to see Uncle to make final arrangement.
“A surprising letter in the post this morning,” he said. “Beaver Hateman and all his supporters have written to say they intend to come to the sale, and whatever you, my dear sir, decide to give, they will give more.”
“A good statement,” said Uncle, “if we can believe it.”
“I know you have not yet said what your gift will be, but if you do now perhaps sheer pride will drive this somewhat shifty character to make a great effort to exceed it.”
“I warn you,” said Uncle, “that Beaver Hateman will think nothing of promising a million crates of bananas and then declaring himself bankrupt.”
“Too true, I’m afraid,” said the King sadly.
“Therefore,” said Uncle, “I see no reason to alter my original plan, and that is to declare what I am going to give on the day. It will be a great surprise, I assure you.”
“Oh, I’m certain of that,” said the King. “We must just try to be patient.”
The sale was to be held in the Badgertown Stadium. A great field had been walled in and thousands of seats had been built round it in tiers. The platform for the opening had been built out a little way into the amphitheatre, and raised so that all who were on it were in full view. There was a table in front of Uncle’s chair with a microphone on it. Uncle does not need a microphone of course, his voice of thunder can reach the limit of any building.
The working committee, under the supervision of the King himself, had piled round the platform a positive mountain of bananas, coconuts and Whang Eggs.
When the great day came Uncle put on his best purple dressing-gown, his elephant boots with diamond tips, and a gold hat embroidered with rubies. He also carried his festival watch, a great time-piece almost like a small clock and so covered with jewels that it was hard to see the hands. A special gold-plated traction engine had also been brought out to take him to the stadium.
What a day it promised to be! The sky was blue, the air soft and mild, and as the morning went on files of creatures could be seen crossing the plain on their way to the sale. Even grizzly bears were coming from the mountains, and carrying coconuts too.
After lunch a big crowd of Uncle’s followers gathered for the ride to the stadium. There was no need to leave a strong party behind to guard Homeward as Beaver Hateman and his party were actually seen setting out for the sale in old carts, sledges and on broken-down motor-bikes.
Goodman, looking through the field-glasses, reported that he thought they were all there, Beaver Hateman, Hitmouse, Jellytussle, Nailrod, and Filljug, to name only a few.
“And Beaver Hateman’s got on what looks like a better suit than usual,” said Goodman.
“Good,” said Uncle. “Let us hope that for once their black hearts have been touched!”
They had a good ride to the stadium. The traction engine was burning sandalwood, and made the air fragrant as they rode along.
Bells rang and trumpets sounded a loud fanfare as Uncle entered the stadium. The King of the Badgers led the way to the platform where a huge chair had been provided for Uncle, and a small gilded throne for himself.
A number of aged and worthy badgers were placed on either side of Uncle, and the Old Monkey and Goodman were given seats near him to represent the many inhabitants of Homeward.
As the procession of dignitaries mounted the platform the Badfort crowd entered to take seats near it. They looked almost respectable for once. Beaver Hateman was wearing a new sack suit made out of a potato-bag. There was not a skewer to be seen about Hitmouse, Jellytussle was shaking quietly but far less objectionably than usual, and the ghost Hootman slid in a polite shadowy way into a seat.
Before the ceremony began a hundred young badgers sang a melody: ‘Hail to Glorious Uncle.’
It went well, too, though Beaver Hateman was seen to stop his ears, and Nailrod Hateman sneezed all the time.
> The King of the Badgers then spoke:
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “it does me good to see such a vast gathering. Friends from near at hand, and wolves, tigers and bears from remote forests. I am particularly glad, too, to see our hardy adventurous neighbours from Badfort.”
At this moment Beaver Hateman’s followers broke into their tribal cheer, a deafening yell of “Stinggoon! Stinggoon!”
When he could make himself heard again the King continued:
“But I am sure I voice all your feelings when I say that the most glorious feature of this assembly today is the presence of the much-loved owner of Homeward Castle—”
There was tremendous cheering. To Uncle’s surprise Beaver Hateman kept quiet, only stopping up his ears and squinting.
When Uncle rose to speak there was deafening applause that lasted for nearly ten minutes.
“Your Majesty, friends and neighbours,” he began. “I think I can say that I am always in sympathy with those who are less fortunate than myself.”
Uncle was so sure that Hateman would object that he stopped and looked at him, but Hateman merely sniffed loudly.
“I’m glad this great effort is being made,” Uncle went on. “Many need this help. Great quantities of bananas, coconuts and Whang Eggs have been given, and now, my friends, buy and give all you can. I now come to my own personal contribution.”
There was dead silence in the stadium. Even the Badfort crowd stopped shuffling, sneezing and sniffing.
Uncle put his hand in his pocket and took out one banana, one coconut and one Whang Egg.
“These are what I mean to give,” he said.
There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Hateman yelled:
“A rotten beggarly gift and from the richest man here! I was going to give a million bananas myself, but now I’ll give nothing, and I’ll show what I think by clearing out now! Give them a joberry, boys!”
Hateman’s followers all filed out, singing a hideous song, rattling sticks, and snatching bananas from the pile at the base of the platform.
When they had gone Uncle continued:
