The guard waved his flag; the locomotive hissed and groaned and chuffed. The steam whistle let loose a silvery shriek, and the train slowly pulled away.
Rat and Mole and Humphrey stood on the platform and waved their handkerchiefs and shouted their good-byes until Toad disappeared around the bend. Then they turned and headed back home, each with that vague feeling of flatness one inevitably feels after waving a friend off on a journey that entails new horizons and novel adventures, leaving one behind in a smaller, staler world.
“Good old Toady,” said the Mole, wistfully. “The Riverbank won’t be the same without him. True, he could be an annoying toad at times, but he was our toad. Now he will be annoying other people. Ah, well.”
“I’ll miss Uncle Toad,” said Humphrey. “Just think, a member of my own family with Poffenbarger’s Syndrome. It’s too exciting for words.”
They spied Badger leaning against the back of the station house, smoking a pipe in the shadows. Apparently he had been there all along.
“Hullo, Badger,” said Rat, with some surprise. “Toad just left for Cambridge. Did you see him go?”
Badger nodded gravely and drew on his pipe. “He’s probably the stupidest genius that ever lived. And even though it’s a mistake for a Riverbanker to go out into the Wide World, Cambridge might be the right place for him. From what I hear, it’s just about the only spot in England where the inhabitants are as puffed up as he is. Oh, and there’s Oxford, of course.”
“Did you ever in your life,” mulled the Rat, “think we’d see such an odd event? I’d have bet my own granny’s pelt against it.” He thought some more. “Five to one.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Small, Bedraggled Weasel
In which Humphrey makes a new friend. (Always a good thing.)
The adult supervision of Humphrey was, from time to time, somewhat lax, what with his mother in Italy, his uncle in Cambridge, and his temporary guardians messing about in boats. In their defense, Mole and Rat did visit him daily, and invited him over for tea, and joined him in rousing games of croquet and cricket and lawn bowls. The butler and the housekeeper and Cook, of course, checked on him frequently during the day, but were preoccupied by their duties of office. In consequence, there were many hours when Humphrey was left all alone, which he did not mind in the least, for he was by temperament a bookish child, and the child who is at home in the world of books never lacks for companionship, entertainment, or adventure.
For a while, he busied himself with the matter of replacing all the equipment that had been pulverized in the blast. He spent many long, satisfying hours poring over catalogs and ordering exotic pieces of glassware and other paraphernalia. He also ordered questionable chemicals and certain interesting substances which perhaps, strictly speaking, a toad of his tender years should not have had access to. However, in his favor, it must be said that he strictly observed all protocols for safe handling (unlike some creatures we could name).
One lazy afternoon, Humphrey wandered down to the kitchen to beg some baking soda from Cook for one of his experiments.36 There he arrived unexpectedly in the middle of a violent scene. The butler, the cook, and the scullery mouse had cornered a small, bedraggled weasel who was crying so piteously and profusely that the fur down his front was all soaked through.37
Cook, a large, round hedgehog, spluttered, “We caught him pinching apples in the orchard, Master Humphrey, all red-handed.38 The very idear!” She turned to the cowering creature. “Why, I’ve a good mind to turn you over to the law, you rotten little sneak thief.” And with this, she drew back her meaty paw and delivered a good clout to the small, bedraggled weasel’s ear.
He wailed, “I-I-I’m sorry. Me mam sent me to pick up the windfalls so she could bake an apple tart for me brother’s birthday. I didn’t mean no harm. It’s just that it’s Jimmy’s birthday and all, and there’s no money for a proper birthday cake, so me mam sent me for the windfalls. She said not to take nuffing from the trees, and I didn’t. It was only the old mealy ones off the ground. Please, missus, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.
“You’re nothing but a sneak thief. The very idear,” said Cook, who seemed to have a limited vocabulary for describing dastardly deeds. She aimed another cuff at the cowering creature. Humphrey, who had never in his life suffered the lack of a birthday cake, was moved by the plight of the evildoer, who was guilty, after all, of only the most trivial of misdemeanors.
“Cook,” said Humphrey, “do you use the windfalls for anything?”
“What?” said Cook. “What’s that, Master Humphrey?”
“Do you use the windfalls in making your tarts?”
“I most certainly do not. None of that wormy old muck for the likes of you gentlemen. The groom feeds ’em to the horses.”
The weasel, who really was pitifully small and thoroughly bedraggled, looked at Humphrey in mute appeal.
Humphrey said, “Perhaps we could allow him a few apples for his brother’s birthday tart. Couldn’t we do that?”
“It’s Professor Toad’s property,” huffed Cook. “It’s the principle of the thing. The very idear.”
“I think that in this case we could overlook such a minor transgression, don’t you agree?” said Humphrey. “Just this once.”
“Well,” said Cook, “I never.”
Humphrey plucked a basket from the counter and said to the weasel, “Come along, you. Let’s get your brother some apples, shall we?” He unlatched the door and went out through the kitchen garden, the weasel tripping hard on his heels, making stuttering pronouncements of apology and gratitude.
“Oh, Master Humphrey,” he said, “I’m ever so grateful.”
Humphrey looked at the weasel, who, despite his diminutive build, appeared to be about his own age. “Look here,” said Humphrey, “let’s not have any of that young master stuff. You can call me Humphrey. What’s your name?” And he proffered a paw in friendship.
“Sammy, sir.”
“And no sirring, either.”
“Yes, s— Yes, Humphrey.” They shook paws and made their way to the orchard.
“Rightio,” said Humphrey. He examined the unappealing condition of the apples on the ground and said, “I think your brother deserves better than these. It’s not every day one celebrates one’s—How old did you say he’s turning?”
“Six, Humphrey.”
“Six, then. It’s not every day one turns six. It’s a very important birthday. Let’s get him some proper ones off the tree, shall we?”
Together they filled up the basket with the finest specimens picked from the branches. Sammy staggered off with his laden basket, enough for several tarts, calling out many pledges of gratitude and friendship over his shoulder as he tottered away.
Later that evening the basket was returned to the kitchen door. It contained a warm apple tart wrapped in a tea towel, the fruit delicately scented with cinnamon, the crust a perfect golden brown. Even Cook had to admit it was a paragon of the baker’s art.39
* * *
The following day, Humphrey and Sammy spent a jovial hour building a kite out of newspaper and lengths of balsa wood and flour-and-water paste, which stuck dreadfully to Sammy’s fur.40 In consequence, Humphrey ended up doing most of the pasting. But then, when it was time to launch the kite, Sammy (who was by far the better runner) did the honors and bolted across the croquet lawn towing the kite behind him. After several exhausting sprints, the wind finally caught it and chucked it higher and higher as if amusing itself. The kite waggled its tail and tugged thrillingly on its long string like a living thing. They took turns flying it until the wind decided it had enjoyed enough of a frolic with them and departed for other chums and other kites.
By then it was time for afternoon tea, which they took on the terrace.
Sammy eyed the biscuits.41 Humphrey noted this and said, “Dig in, Sammy. No need to hold back. There’s plenty.” They ate and drank their fill, if not a bit more, then lay back in their wicker chairs and stuporously
observed the dumpling clouds overhead.
After a while, Humphrey sighed happily and said, “There is nothing so grand as messing about with kites. Unless, of course, one could actually fly. It’s such a shame about my uncle’s balloon. He had a big yellow balloon, you know, but it escaped before I had a chance to try it out. I bet I could make it fly again. That’s if it’s ever found.”
“But it is found,” said Sammy. “I’ve seen it.”
“What?” said Humphrey, with a jolt. “You’ve seen it? Is it all right? It’s not all smashed up, is it?”
“There’s a hole in the basket,” said Sammy. “One side of it’s all shoved in. And there’s lots of rips in the balloon that’s got to be mended.”
Humphrey said, “Why don’t you bring it in and claim the reward? It’s a whole pound, you know.”
“I did try,” admitted Sammy, “but I couldn’t lift it. It’s far too heavy for me to carry on me own.”
Humphrey pondered this for a moment and said with mounting excitement, “Perhaps if I borrowed a wheelbarrow from the gardener, you and I could retrieve it together and split the reward. What d’you say, Sammy? Would that be fair?”
“Oooh, yes, immensely fair, Humphrey.”
And although Humphrey was not by nature a greedy young toad, his eyes lit up at the thought of all the fascinating scientific equipment he could buy with half a pound. There was also the thought of the glory entailed in resurrecting his uncle’s expensive lighter-than-air craft, and the opportunity to work on a project that would hone his engineering skills.
“By the way,” said Humphrey, “where is it? Is it far?”
Came the reply: “It’s in the middle of the Wild Wood.”
CHAPTER TEN
Toad in His Element
Life at Cambridge, where Professor Toad tackles the Greatest of the Great Big Questions.
Meanwhile, Professor Toad was making quite the splash at Cambridge. He dined nightly at High Table with elderly Deans and fusty Provosts and all manner of starchy, distinguished scholars. Everywhere he walked, the undergraduates pointed and whispered admiringly: Professor Toad can hear any musical composition played once, and then reproduce it perfectly on the piano. Professor Toad completes the Sunday Times crossword puzzle without mistakes in under three minutes. In pen. No! In pen? Good heavens! Professor Toad knows all the parts in the Gilbert and Sullivan repertoire and sings them for amusement in the bath. Is there simply no end to the man’s accomplishments? Such a towering intellect! Such a magnificent brain! (Not the most attractive of men, to be sure. A good thing he’s so sublimely talented, for he does bear an unhappy resemblance to, well, a toad. Most unfortunate. Especially in light of his name. But we’re frightfully lucky to have him!)
On this particular evening, Toad grazed and sluiced sumptuously with the Master of Trinity College, seated under the medieval portrait of the college founder, Henry VIII (who, coincidentally, bore no small resemblance to a toad himself). Following dinner, they took their ease in the Senior Commons Room and drank their coffee and fifty-year-old port while Toad treated the Master to a discussion of his next scientific publication, “Jam Side Down: A Discourse on the Physics of Falling Toast.”
“I’ve always been fascinated,” said Toad, “with the jam-side-down conundrum, and now, thanks to the endowed chair, I finally have the resources to devote to this pressing question.”
“So, it’s true,” whispered the Master, his eyes shining with unbounded admiration. “I heard the rumors, Professor, but I hardly dared to hope you would address this thorny problem. I applaud you, sir! How will you attack it?”
Toad puffed happily on his cigar and gassed away. “One could approach it experimentally by flipping a thousand pieces of jam-bearing toast off the counter, but that would be terribly tedious. To say nothing of sticky and a criminal waste of perfectly good toast. No, no, I shall think the problem into submission, using Feral Pangolin Quadratical Equations. As you know, Master, my cranial capacity is most astonishing, and once I have solved this trifling puzzle, I plan to tackle a few other matters. Got to keep the old gray matter ticking over, eh?”
“By gad, sir,” breathed the Master with a rapt expression, “it’s all I can do to keep up.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said Toad. He glanced around the room at the dozing bewhiskered dons and murmured, “I haven’t announced it yet, but I plan to answer the Greatest Big Question of all, namely, Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
“No!” gasped the Master. “Not the chicken crossing the road! Good heavens, man, do you know how many great minds have been derailed by that damnable inquiry? Why, just last year, we lost Professor Armentrout to it, and the poor man hasn’t been the same since. Lost all powers of speech, he did. I beg of you, be careful.”
“Yes, yes,” said Toad, blithely waving away the Master’s alarm. “But I possess the supple intellect and steely resolve the question requires, making me the perfect candidate to answer it.”
“Professor Toad,” said the Master, “a mind like yours comes along once in a century. We are privileged and proud, sir—proud—to have you among our humble band.”
There was silence. Professor Toad had glazed over, a sign that he was thinking the deepest of very deep thoughts. The Master sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. He studied the great man, who was as homely as a potato at the bottom of the bin.
“Hmm,” said Toad. “How odd that so many of the Great Big Questions involve chickens. I wonder why that is.” He paused and then said, “Oh, look. I’ve just come up with another GBQ. Have to add that one to the list.”
The Master appeared to be a man engaged in a mighty internal struggle. Finally he spoke in low, humble tones. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Professor, but would it be too presumptuous of me to ask to see the list? That is,” he hurried on, “if you wouldn’t consider it an invasion of your privacy.”
Toad extracted a black leather notebook from the folds of his gown and magnanimously handed it to the Master, who opened it with trembling hands and read the list.
GREAT BIG QUESTIONS
TO BE ANSWERED
BY THURSDAY
1. Why is the sky blue? Instead of, say, a nice orangey brown?
2. What killed off the dinosaurs? Did they do themselves in out of boredom?
3. And why does breakfast always come before lunch?
The Master went all swimmy in the head at the last one and passed his hand over his eyes. So extremely abstruse was the issue (and yet such a fundamental part of the fabric of our universe) that he doubted anyone had ever thought to pose the question, let alone answer it. “Oh, Professor Toad,” he quailed, “do be careful. You’re pushing the absolute limits here!”
“Worry not, old fellow,” said Toad airily, for his grandiosity knew no bounds. “There isn’t a Great Big Question that’s got the better of me yet. I can wrestle each of ’em to the ground with one paw tied behind my back.”
The Master laughed like an enthusiastic hyena. “One paw. Oh, I say, that’s priceless.” A pair of geriatric academicians slumped in postprandial torpor by the fireplace woke to the sound and harrumphed. Upon realizing they were harrumphing at Professor Toad’s party, their scowls melted into weak, servile smiles.
Toad glanced at his pocketwatch and said, “I must be going, or I’ll be late for dress rehearsal. The amateur theatrical group is putting on HMS Pinafore, and we open on Saturday.”
The Master said, “You’re playing one of the leads, Professor?”
“No, no. Just a member of the chorus,” said Toad, removing his glasses and polishing them with the fat end of his tie. The Master shuddered, for the man’s resemblance to a toad was multiplied a hundredfold by the simple removal of his spectacles.
Toad returned his glasses to their rightful perch on his nose, although, as the Master noted, it wasn’t so much a nose as a … as a … well, what exactly was the right word for it? As Toad took his leave and toddled off, the Master, oblivious to the soft
snores of the elderly dons around him, remained by the fire. He mused about the great man’s unfortunate resemblance to a toad and how Mother Nature, who had so generously bestowed her intellectual gifts on the one hand, had been so cruelly parsimonious on the other when it came to doling out the physical charms.
* * *
Two days later, the Master rushed up the stone staircase to Toad’s study and burst into the inner sanctum. “Professor Toad,” he gasped, “do forgive this thoughtless intrusion. I wouldn’t disturb you except that the news is so important. The gentlemen at Oxford (and I use the term loosely, for we’re talking about Oxford, after all) are claiming they’ve come up with something called Artificial Intelligence.”
“Indeed,” said Toad with narrowed eyes. “And what, pray tell, do they do with this so-called Artificial Intelligence?”
“Somehow they’ve put it into a device. A device that thinks,” puffed the Master.
“Ridiculous,” scoffed Toad. “There’s no such thing. Next they’ll say they’ve got a perpetual motion machine. I’ve debunked a dozen of those. They always turn out to be powered by some tiny animal running on a wheel in the bottom of the box. Charlatans, all of ’em.”
“No, no,” said the Master. “They say that the machine can take one plus one and actually come up with two. Can it be possible?”
Toad mulled this over and said, “Hmm, you’re sure it’s not just some kind of glorified abacus?”
“My spies—er, research assistants—say not.”
“And does this contraption have a name?”
“They call it a computator.”
“Computator? Quite absurd. I’m sure there’s no future in it, none at all. Now don’t fret yourself, Master. I’ll come up with something better, you wait and see. We can’t have Oxford pulling away from us on any front, not even one as patently useless as this. I suggest you go home and have a good, strong cup of tea. I’ll have something ready for you by morning. By the way, if you’re going by Magdalene College, tell ’em to send me a dozen earls and viscounts right away. Dukes, if they’ve got ’em. I’ll need them for my research.”
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