by Ron Bates
She pressed Mugman’s nose with her finger. His eyes immediately flashed the word sale, a bell rang like on a cash register, and his tongue popped out like a drawer. There was a dollar on it.
“Thanks, flyboy,” Cala Maria said, and she took the bill and strolled happily down the midway.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” said Cuphead. “How much money do you have left, anyway?”
Mugman checked.
“None,” he said. “But I’m rich in monkeys.”
Feeling suddenly nervous, Ms. Chalice reached into her pocket. It was empty.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “I’ve been burgled.”
Now it was Cuphead’s turn. He reached back into the pocket that had seemed suspiciously light during his encounter with the Ferris wheel operator. This time, he dug deep—all the way to the bottom, and through the hole, and through the hole in the hole. But when his fingers arrived in Pocket Town, all they found were little lint tumbleweeds blowing down the street.
Cuphead’s stomach twisted into a knot. He checked his other pocket. There were two marbles, a paper clip, a fuzzy lemon-drop, and twenty-five cents.
This was a disaster.
“Oh well, at least we still have our health,” said Mugman, and that was true.
But whether they could keep it was an entirely different matter.
Cuphead, Mugman, and Ms. Chalice took a slow, sad walk down the midway. Elder Kettle was right. The carnival was filled with liars and thieves, and they were wrong to have ever come here. The three of them were hungry and tired, and their money was gone, but worse than all that was the constant, agonizing feeling of guilt. Everyone was counting on them to bring Elder Kettle a wonderful birthday present, and what did they have for him?
Nothing.
They collapsed into a miserable heap in front of a short wooden fence.
“What kind of present can we buy with a lousy twenty-five cents?” Cuphead groaned.
Mugman and Ms. Chalice weren’t listening. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t heard.
“Avast, ye matey,” came a gruff, booming voice from above. “Sounds like you’re drownin’ in a sea of troubles. But worry not, lad—ol’ Brineybeard’s here to rescue you!”
When Cuphead looked up, he saw an upside-down face staring back at him. It had an eye patch and a thick black beard and a grin as wide as a mainsail.
“Rescue?” he asked.
Cuphead climbed to his feet and discovered the fence they were leaning against wasn’t a fence at all—it was the front of a carnival booth. The bearded man was leaning through a window above them.
“Captain Brineybeard, at your service,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearin’ you’ve a need for a gift.”
“It’s a birthday present for Elder Kettle,” Mugman told him.
“Arr, it’s a fine thing to honor a man on his birthday,” Brineybeard said. “And as it happens, I have a hull full of treasures right here, each of them available for only, say… twenty-five cents?”
“Only twenty-five cents?” Cuphead said excitedly.
“Aye. That is, if you can win them.”
The captain smiled. It was the kind of happy, salty smile that could come only from someone who knows just the right time to sing a sea chantey. This was not that time. (The truth is, now that he’d become a landlubber, Brineybeard was interested in only one kind of ship—salesmanship.) He held out a ball.
“Care to try your luck?” he asked.
Cuphead stared at the perfect little sphere. It was round and white with horseshoe-shaped stitching, just like the ball Hilda Berg had returned that morning. He reached for it—and felt himself yanked backward by his collar.
“My brother doesn’t have any luck,” Mugman said, pulling Cuphead away from the booth. “He’s all out.”
It was true. If Cuphead had learned nothing else today, he’d learned luck didn’t last very long at the carnival.
“Sorry, Captain,” he told Brineybeard. “Save it for the rubes.”
Brineybeard frowned and rubbed his furry chin. He leaned an elbow on the counter.
“Oh well, you can’t blame an ol’ salt for tryin’. I just thought with you needin’ a present, and this bein’ the easiest game on the whole midway, then—”
“Easiest?” said Cuphead.
He pulled away from Mugman. The captain smiled again.
“Aye, that it be,” he said. “This game ain’t nothin’ to a boy who knows how to pitch. Why, it’d be like throwin’ at a sittin’ duck.”
“And what exactly would I be throwing at? I don’t see any targets.” Cuphead asked.
Instantly, the front of the booth popped open, displaying a big sign that said DUNK-A-QUACK.
“Sittin’ ducks,” Brineybeard said proudly.
Cautiously, Cuphead peeked over the counter. Sure enough, there were five ducks sitting on five little ledges. They didn’t look particularly cunning. Or quick. Or even interested. One was taking a nap, one was reading a newspaper, the third was wearing a black derby hat and smoking a cigar, and the last two were playing a game of canasta. It really did look easy.
“Look, mate, all you gotta do is hit the target and the duck falls into the water tank. It’s a piece-a-cake. Whadda’ya say?”
Cuphead thought it over. He knew he shouldn’t spend their last twenty-five cents on a carnival game, but this was pitching—the thing he was born to do! He looked at Ms. Chalice. She shook her head.
“No dice, Brineybeard,” he said.
The three of them were just about to leave (which is exactly what Elder Kettle would’ve wanted them to do), when the duck with the black derby hat and cigar stood up on his ledge.
“So you’re just gonna walk away, eh?” he said. “What’s a matter, kid? Chicken?”
Well, if you know anything at all about ducks and chickens, you know they don’t get along very well, and never will. So of all the names a duck might call someone (and keep in mind they practically invented fowl language), “chicken” is by far the most insulting.
No one understood this better than Cuphead. He clenched his fists and stuck out his chin.
“What’d you say?” he growled, taking a step toward the booth.
Ms. Chalice moved in front of him.
“Take it easy, Cuphead. He’s just trying to get to you,” she said.
Cuphead stared at the duck and frowned.
“Phooey,” he said, spitting on the ground. “We’re gettin’ outta here.”
“Aw, let him go,” the other card-playing duck shouted. “He’s probably got a rag arm, anyway.”
Cuphead gritted his teeth.
“You’re right, who needs him?” said the derby-wearing duck. “Hey fellas, let’s say goodbye in a way he can understand.”
All the ducks leaped from their seats.
“BOK! Bok bok BOK! Bok BOK!” they clucked, then laughed so hard they nearly fell off their ledges.
“Just ignore them, Cuphead,” Mugman said.
Cuphead tried. But his steps were becoming increasingly stompy.
“All right, matey, have it your way,” Brineybeard called out. “But I sure hate for you to miss out on these fabulous prizes. Dunk just one duck, and you get a genuine tin monkey.”
Mugman turned around, but Ms. Chalice stopped him.
“You’re wasting your breath,” Cuphead yelled back.
“Two ducks gets you a whistle. Three, a comb. Four, a stuffed bear, and if you get all five—”
“I won’t, because I’m not playing.”
“If you get all five,” he continued, “you get a gold pocket watch and chain.”
Cuphead froze in his tracks. He could not have moved his legs if he wanted to. Instead, his head spun all the way around until it faced Brineybeard.
“Did you say pocket watch?”
“And chain,” the captain said. “And all you have to do is dunk some sittin’ ducks.”
It did look easy. Too easy.
“Well, I don’t k
now.…”
Brineybeard’s face broke into the widest grin yet.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. Just to show you how simple it is, I’ll let you take the first throw for free.”
Free? At the carnival? It sounded too good to be true. Still, Cuphead wasn’t sure he could trust a pirate—they were a terrible nuisance on the water, and he couldn’t imagine them being much better on land. And he definitely didn’t care for those ducks. He looked at Mugman and Ms. Chalice.
“What have we got to lose?” Ms. Chalice shrugged.
Good ol’ Ms. Chalice. She had a real knack for getting to the nittiest part of the gritty. So, as a group, the three of them made a quick, looping U-turn and headed back to the booth.
“Can I see the watch first?” Cuphead asked.
Brineybeard smiled and lifted his hand from behind the counter. A beautiful gold pocket watch dangled from his fingers. It was even nicer than the one in Porkrind’s store.
“Okay, I’ll take a throw,” Cuphead told him.
Brineybeard handed him the ball. He rubbed the cool white horsehide against his palm.
“Well, look who’s back,” said the derbied duck. “If it ain’t my ol’ pal, chicken-boy. What’s that you got in your hand there, chicken-boy? Don’t tell me you laid an egg!”
The bigmouthed birds were in stitches. They cackled and clucked, and Cuphead felt his face turning the color of tomato soup. Meanwhile, his chief tormentor tugged down his hat and braced himself for the pitch.
“So, you think you can dunk me, do you? Well, take your best shot!”
Instantly, the dugout ducks broke into ballgame chatter. They said things like “Atta boy, atta boy, put it in there, pal!” and “Right down the ol’ pike, you got ’em, sport!” and “No meatballs, ace, just toss ’em a yakker and put some mustard on it!”
They were so loud and so enthusiastic that if Cuphead hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn they were rooting for him. The truth is, with Mugman and Ms. Chalice looking on, the whole thing felt almost like a real ballgame. He pictured himself in a stadium in front of a crowd of cheering fans.
Now pitching for the Inkwell Inkspots, said an imaginary announcer, Cuphead!
“Go on, Cuphead,” Mugman told him. “You can do it.”
Cuphead snapped out of his daydream. Sitting across from him were the five ducks, each of them looking as smug as ever. He picked a target, stared at the big red bull’s-eye, and went into his windup. Then, like a cannon firing a mighty shot, he rocketed the ball across the booth. It soared through open space, made an impressive dipsy-doodle, and then—
CLANGGGGGGG!
It nailed the target. The ledge opened like a trapdoor, and the foulest of the fowl plummeted into the tank, leaving behind a derby and a floating cigar.
“Help! Help!” he cried, splashing frantically in the water. “I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”
“But you’re a duck,” Mugman reminded him.
“Oh yeah,” said the duck, who immediately stopped drowning and started doing the backstroke. “Look at me, I’m waterproof!”
Of course, his feathered friends thought this was hysterical. They fell on their backs and grabbed their stomachs and kicked their feet up and down before finally helping the wise-quacker back onto the ledge.
“So, what do you say, lad?” Brineybeard asked. “Are you ready to win that watch?”
Cuphead wanted to win the watch, and he really wanted to dunk another duck. Still, it was their last quarter. For a dilemma as big as this, he needed advice (preferably in the form of a musical number, which was the style at the time).
So it was a good thing the Four Mel Arrangement just happened to be passing by.
We hear you’re quite a PITCHER, we hear you’ve got an ARM—
(Bom, bom, bom)
We hear your blazing fastball once set off a fire ALARM—
(Bom, bom, bom)
Now all of us are hoping you take home that watch and chainnnnnnnnnnnn—
(Bom, bom, bom, BOM)
So DUNK those DUCKS and send your BIRTHDAY worries down the DRAIN!
As soon as the song was over, the little quartet disappeared. And so did Cuphead’s doubts about what he had to do.
“You heard the Mels,” he said. “Give me the ball.”
The more he thought about it, the more Cuphead was convinced this was the right decision, and not just because it had come to him in four-part harmony. After all, how else were they going to get Elder Kettle a nice watch? Or anything else, for that matter? And if, in the process, he happened to settle the hash of a bunch of bad-mannered mallards, where was the harm in that? No, after giving it careful consideration, he was absolutely sure this was the smartest thing he’d ever done, and that was all there was to it.
As for why Ms. Chalice was frowning, he had no idea.
“Pssssst,” she said, motioning for him to come closer.
Cuphead waved her away. “I can do this.”
“Sure, you could, if it was fair,” she whispered. “But I’ve got a sneaky feeling this game is crooked.”
Just then, the booth rocked crookedly to one side until it looked like a sinking ship sticking out of the water. Brineybeard quickly picked up the slumping edge and stuck a rock under it, making the whole thing as straight as the innocent-looking grin on his face.
Ms. Chalice crossed her arms.
“It’s just a coincidence,” Cuphead told her, and he handed the captain their last quarter.
He took the ball, rolled it between his fingers, and gave the ducks a steely-eyed stare (steely-eyed being the unfriendliest of all the sports stares). But oddly enough, the ducks didn’t stare back. They didn’t mock him or taunt him or egg him on with contagious ballpark banter. In fact, they seemed completely uninterested. They’d gone back to playing cards or reading the newspaper or smoking cigars or napping just as they had been when he’d arrived. Hard as it was to believe, this absolute indifference was even more distracting than their shenanigans. Cuphead put it out of his mind and focused on the targets. Each one had a red bull’s-eye as big as a pomegranate—a good pitcher couldn’t miss. This was a cinch.
He went through his elaborate, multistep windup and drilled the ball at the first target. The pitch could not have been truer, and just when it looked like a direct hit—
THUD!
One of the ducks—the one behind the newspaper—stuck a catcher’s mitt in front of it.
“That’s not fair! He used a catcher’s mitt!” Ms. Chalice complained.
“A catcher’s mitt? I don’t see no catcher’s mitt,” lied Brineybeard.
The ducks all whistled innocently.
“Next pitch!” The pirate grinned and handed Cuphead another ball.
Cuphead narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. He’d just have to try harder, that’s all. This time, he twisted his arm until it wound up like a rubber band, then launched his screwball. It whipped, and whirled, and headed straight for the bull’s-eye, and then—
TWEEEEEEEEET!
The napping duck blew a whistle. And since he was now wearing a traffic cop’s uniform and holding up a small stop sign, the ball screeched to a halt. A second later, the target swung upward like a crossing gate, the red bull’s-eye turned green, and—WHOOSH!—the ball sped harmlessly underneath it.
“Hey, you said these were sitting ducks!” Cuphead complained.
“Aye, they be sittin’,” Brineybeard said. “Why, them’s the sittin’est ducks I ever did see.”
Cuphead sighed. How had he convinced himself this game would be fair? It was a carnival, and carnivals were filled with liars and thieves, just like Elder Kettle said. All he could do now was take his lumps. He threw the third pitch (which was batted back with a tennis racket), and the fourth (which was incinerated by a flamethrower), and solemnly held out his hand.
Brineybeard passed him the fifth and final ball.
“Don’t worry, Cuphead,” Ms. Chalice said. “You’ll get this one.”
“Big deal,” Cuphead grumbled. “It’s the last ball. What are we supposed to do—give Elder Kettle a tin monkey?”
“If he doesn’t want it, I know someone who does!” Mugman beamed.
Cuphead rolled his eyes and, out of habit, went into the long windup for his pitch. He was just about to make the painfully pointless throw when Ms. Chalice screamed, “Wait!”
Cuphead froze like a statue in mid-toss.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Mel, Melvin, Melroy, and Melbert—come with me.”
The Four Mels popped up from behind the counter and followed Ms. Chalice to the center of the midway. It was very crowded.
“Attention, everybody!” she yelled. “How about a sing-along?”
Well, if you’ve ever been to the Inkwell Isles, you know how they feel about their sing-alongs. No sooner had the words left her mouth than a huge group of communal crooners came running from all directions.
“Everybody ready?” she shouted.
“But I don’t know the words,” yelled a stranger.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she told him. “Just follow the bouncing ball!”
Ah, the bouncing ball—where would sing-alongs be without it? As you know, whenever synchronized songsters come together, lyrics appear overhead as if on some invisible magic movie screen. Then a big red ball arrives from out of nowhere and bounces from word to word to help everyone sing along. So it was no surprise at all when that very thing happened as Mel, Mel, Mel, and Mel led the crowd in a merry melody that went like this:
We’re SINGIN’ a SWINGIN’ song—
(BOM, bom, BOM, bom)
SO come JOIN us and SING along—
(BOM, bom, BOM, bom)
Don’t KNOW the WORDS?
No TROUBLE at ALL—
Just FOLLOW the BOUNCING ball!
When the red ball struck the last note, it bounced right off the end of the lyric sheet and right into Ms. Chalice’s hands. She turned it over and peeked at the underside, which read:
MANUFACTURED BY
ACME SING-A-LONG COMPANY
“A THOUSAND BOUNCES IN EVERY BALL!”