“Because Leo’s an original,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father. “There’s nobody else quite like him.”
“Thank God for that,” said Jacob Two-Two’s mother.
CHAPTER 4
ate the next afternoon, everybody in the family was gathered in the living room, except for Jacob Two-Two’s mother, who was busy, as usual, preparing a delicious dinner for them.
Jacob Two-Two’s father was lying on the sofa, also as usual, reading the latest spy novel by John le Carré. Suddenly he set down his book, and called out in a loud voice, “WHO IS MY FAVORITE CHILD?”
Daniel immediately hid behind the curtains.
Noah made for the nearest closet.
Emma dove behind the sofa.
Marfa slid under the coffee table.
And Jacob Two-Two crawled under a chair.
“I am burdened with five kids,” their father said, “four of them ungrateful, lazy beyond compare, each one capable of eating through a basket of peaches in an hour, ordering the most expensive dish on the menu if I take them out to dinner, always forgetting to give me my phone messages, and – the worst offense of all – failing to laugh at my jokes. However, my four stinkers aside, I am also blessed with one child who is totally lovable. Obliging. Respectful. Eager to help at all times. But who is it? Where is it? Hmmmn. Let me see. Isn’t that a pair of feet I see sticking out from under a chair?”
Oh, no, thought Jacob Two-Two, not me this time. But it was too late. He was being dragged out of his hiding place.
“Ah, there you are,” said his father. “My favorite child.”
Jacob Two-Two groaned. “What do I have to do, Daddy?”
“Wash my car, you lucky devil.”
Now that it was safe, the other kids emerged from their hiding places, and poor Jacob Two-Two trudged out of the living room. Then he filled a bucket with soapy water, lugged it out to the driveway, and began to wash the car. He had only been at it for five minutes when he noticed somebody approaching the house next door. The person was struggling along on high-heeled shoes, carrying a handbag, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a cluster of cloth flowers pinned to it, and a floral dress.
“Hiya there, Mr. Dinglebat,” said a delighted Jacob Two-Two. “Hiya there.”
“Darn it,” said Mr. Dinglebat, stamping his foot. “I thought this disguise was perfect. How did you recognize me?”
“But I’d recognize you anywhere,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I’ve been looking out for you ever since you moved in last Monday, and I’m really, really glad to see you again.”
“Why thank you, dear boy, merci beaucoup, gracias, because I’ve had many a narrow scrape since we first met.”
“Gosh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Gosh.”
“I was kicked by a horse in Thunder Bay and saw the dawn come up like thunder in Kicking Horse Pass. One day out there in the wilds, I was obliged to dine on porcupine in the Peace River country, but I found peace at last in the Porcupine Hills. And now, amigo, I must get some shut-eye.”
The amazing Mr. Dinglebat reached into his hand bag, pulled out a bottle and popped its cork, which inflated a huge air balloon. Holding on tightly to its drawstring, he floated up to his second-floor window, paused, and called down to Jacob Two-Two. “On second thought, once you’ve finished washing your father’s car, why don’t you visit me in my new abode? I will show you some souvenirs of my many triumphs and teach you a thing or two about spycraft.”
Jacob Two-Two, going about his work with newfound enthusiasm, was done in a jiffy, and then hurried over to Mr. Dinglebat’s house. There he was shown a number of fantastic things, things he couldn’t wait to get home and tell his sisters and brothers about. And just before he left, not wanting to be late for dinner, Mr. Dinglebat slipped him an envelope marked:
TOP SECRET
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
“I should warn you,” he whispered, “that the letter inside is written in mirror code. That means you will only be able to make sense out of it by holding it up to a mirror. I enjoyed your visit.”
“Me, too,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Me, too.”
“Come again, soon.”
“Yes, please!”
CHAPTER 5
is TOP SECRET letter hidden inside his shirt, Jacob Two-Two ran home and made immediately for the first-floor bathroom, where there was a huge mirror. The door was locked.
“Buzz off,” said Noah.
Then he dashed upstairs to try the bathroom on the second floor, where there was also a mirror – and privacy! – available. That door was also locked.
“Beat it,” said Emma.
Entering the living room, out of breath, frustrated, and still flushed with excitement, Jacob Two-Two told his father about some of the fantastic things he had seen and heard at the home of their new neighbor, the master spy.
“Nonsense,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father. “Mr. Dinglebat appears to be just a somewhat goofy, but harmless old man, who enjoys wearing disguises. But a master spy? Not on your life, Jacob.”
“Then how come he has a letter from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, praising him for bravery in action?”
“Have you seen the letter?”
“What letter?” asked Daniel, barging into the living room, followed by Noah, Emma, and Marfa.
“Never mind,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Never mind. Excuse me, I have to go to the toilet.”
“Aw, come on,” said his father. “Have you seen the letter?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“What did it say?”
“I can’t tell. I can’t tell.”
“Is it a secret?”
“If it is,” said Marfa, smiling sweetly, “you can certainly trust me.”
“And me,” said Noah, who was wearing his fearless O’Toole costume.
Jacob Two-Two bit his lip.
“Is it a secret or not?” asked their father again.
“Not exactly. Not exactly.”
“Why can’t you tell us what it said, then?” asked Emma, who was attired in her intrepid Shapiro outfit.
“I think I’d better go and wash my hands before dinner,” said Jacob Two-Two, leaping out of his chair.
“Come on,” said Daniel, shoving him back into his chair.
“I can’t tell you because it was written in invisible ink,” said Jacob Two-Two twice.
Daniel whistled.
“Wow,” said Noah.
“And he has another letter,” said Jacob Two-Two, his cheeks burning red, “this one from the president of the United States of America, thanking him for preventing World Wars Three, Four, and Five from breaking out.”
“What did the president’s letter say, Jacob?” asked his father.
“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you. Now if you’ll please, please excuse me.”
“Oh, sit down,” said his father. “You mean to say this one was also written in invisible ink?”
“No,” said Jacob Two-Two impatiently.
“What then?” asked Noah.
“I was talking to Daddy,” said Jacob Two-Two.
“Aw, come on,” said Daniel. “We’re all family here.”
“Okay, okay,” said Jacob Two-Two, heaving a great sigh. “I can’t tell you what the president’s letter said, because it was written in code.”
“Imagine that!”
“Yeah. Imagine that,” said Jacob Two-Two. “And he has a sword cane, a cigarette lighter that squirts hot pepper, a secret code book, a tape recorder the size of a small bar of soap that fits into a shoe he has with a hollow heel, and a signet ring that holds a container of itching powder.”
“But anybody can buy those things, Jacob,” said his father, lifting him onto his lap.
Jacob Two-Two wiggled free. “Mr. Dinglebat is a master spy and that’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.”
“Jacob, do you know what a spy is, exactly?”
“Sort of. Sort of. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to wash my hands.”
“
Hold on a minute,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, and, taking him by the hand, he led him into the library and dug out his Oxford English Dictionary, and read aloud to him that “spy” meant, “One who spies or watches a person secretly; a secret agent whose business it is to keep a person, place, etc., under close observation …”
Then Jacob Two-Two’s mother came in and announced, “Dinner, everybody!”
“Oh, I think I’d just better wash my hands before I sit down,” said Jacob Two-Two.
“Now there’s a good boy,” said Jacob Two-Two’s mother, surprised that he didn’t have to be asked to do it.
“Yeah,” said Jacob Two-Two, and he raced for the first-floor bathroom, locked the door, pulled out his TOP SECRET letter and held it up to the mirror at last.
CHAPTER 6
MIRROR CODE MESSAGE
CHAPTER 7
ack at Privilege House on Monday morning, Jacob Two-Two and the other boys had to contend once more with their new headmaster, the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, who prowled the school halls searching for boys with shirt-tails hanging out, faces unwashed or shoes unshined, or with jacket buttons missing. He could often be seen munching on a chocolate bar that he had seized from one of the boys. “Bad for your teeth. Hand it over immediately, child.”
Mr. I.M. Greedyguts was rumored to be sweet on Miss Sour Pickle, and vice versa, but that was the least of the boys’ problems. That was nothing compared to the daily ordeal of their school lunches that were now provided by Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse. These lunches were either tasteless, horrible, or just plain disgusting, depending on the day of the week.
No sooner did the boys sit down to lunch that Monday than Mr. I.M. Greedyguts rose from his multi-pillowed throne at the head table, his triple chins wobbling, his huge stomach quaking, and called out, “What do we say before we dig in, my darlings?”
“YUMMY, YUMMY, SAYS MY TUMMY!” the boys chorused back, some of them holding their noses.
“These delicious lunches,” proclaimed Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “rich in vitamins, swimming in minerals, are prepared for your benefit, at great expense, by an expert in the field, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.” Then he cupped a hand to his ear and waited.
“Applaud,” shrieked Miss Sour Pickle. “Clap hands at once, boys.”
The boys applauded.
“And how do we show how grateful we are, children?” demanded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.
“WE EAT EVERY LAST MORSEL ON OUR PLATES!” they answered in unison.
Miss Lapointe, the French teacher, who sat at Jacob Two-Two’s table, whispered, “You had better do what he says, children.” But she shed a tear on their behalf.
Watery soup was followed by itsy-bitsy chunks of fatty meat floating in a lukewarm muddy sauce. The bread rolls were either three days old or came from a cement factory and dessert was a mashed brown mush.
“What’s this supposed to be?” asked Jacob Two-Two.
“Why, it’s banana supreme,” said Miss Sour Pickle.
“Ugh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Ugh.”
Another boy at the table, Mickey Horowitz, groaned.
Robby Burton crossed his eyes.
“I’m going to be sick,” said Chris Lucas.
What made matters worse for the boys was that every day, their eyes filled with longing, they had to watch as a special luncheon tray was wheeled in for Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. Today it was a sizzling two-inch-thick rib steak, served with a mountain of crisp French fries, and followed by a foot-high banana split, topped with hot chocolate sauce.
“Unfortunately,” explained Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “I suffer from ulcers, dyspepsia, stomach acid, heartburn, constipation, gas, iron, aluminum, tin, and zinc deficiencies, and allergies too numerous to mention, and can only look on in envy at your daily gourmet repast.”
Then, after he had gobbled up everything on his plate, washing each mouthful down with red wine, he belched loudly three times, stifled a yawn, and then made his usual announcement: “I am not to be disturbed in my office for the next hour, as I have important papers to go through.”
But even as the sleepy Mr. I.M. Greedyguts prepared to retire to his office, where the hall outside would soon resound with his snores, a pencil-thin Miss Sour Pickle stood up and said, “Mr. Greedyguts, sir, I have to report that Jacob Two-Two has been unspeakably rude to you.”
“What’s that?”
“Behind your back, Your Honor,” she said. “As you were crossing the schoolyard this morning. He stuck out his tongue at you.”
“He did, did he?” An outraged Mr. I.M. Greedyguts glared at Jacob Two-Two. “You are lucky we haven’t got dungeons here,” he said, “as we had during my army days. Or that, because of meddling, sentimental do-gooders, the Chinese water torture is now illegal. And I am also no longer allowed to make a bad boy stand at attention outside-preferably during a thunderstorm or, better still, a blizzard - for, say, eight hours. So your punishment will require some thought …”
As Jacob Two-Two held his breath, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts began to pace up and down.
“Wait! I’ve got it! Oh, yippee for you, Greedyguts,” he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Beginning tomorrow——” He broke off, heaving with laughter. “Starting tomorrow———” And he broke off again, quaking. “Commencing on the next school day, and continuing for the rest of the week, you, Jacob Two-Two, as appropriate to a boy who says most things twice, will be obliged to eat two portions of every delicious luncheon served here, prepared for your pleasure in the incomparable, award-winning kitchens of Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.”
“Oh, no,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.
After school, as the boys waited to be collected by their mothers, Jacob Two-Two, Mickey, Robby, and Chris met in the yard.
“Oh, my stomach still aches,” said Robby. “Whatever are we going to do about these lunches?”
“I complained to my mother,” said Chris, “and she said children today are spoiled rotten, and that’s the problem.”
“My father just laughed,” said Mickey.
“Well, my father is different,” said Jacob Two-Two, “and I’m going to tell him what’s been going on here since Mr. Greedyguts became headmaster. And I’ll bet he’ll do something about it. I’ll bet he will.”
CHAPTER 8
acob Two-Two considered his father a pal. After he had finished work, he often took Jacob Two-Two out for a walk.
The next afternoon, in fact, they wandered as far as his father’s old neighborhood, which Noah had once described as DADDY’S HARD TIMES TOUR, a trip each child in the family had to endure at least once, obliged only to say “oooh” or “aaah” at the right moments. Now Jacob Two-Two told his father that in the week since the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts had been appointed headmaster of Privilege House, the lunches they had to eat were either tasteless, horrible, or downright disgusting, and sometimes all three, and he went on to describe a few.
“Aw,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, “you only feel that way because your mother cooks such delicious meals for us. It can’t be that bad.”
“But it is,” said Jacob Two-Two. “It is.”
“Why when I was your age, the school I attended didn’t even serve lunch to the children. No sirree. I had to get up in the wintry dark, shake out the ice that had formed on my blanket during the night, and make my own lunch. Usually a lettuce sandwich made with one-day-old bread, which my mother could buy more cheaply than fresh bread.”
“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”
“And sometimes,” said his father, “I had to share that stale bread sandwich with boys who were even poorer than we were.”
“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”
“You see that building over there?” said his father, pausing to blow his nose. “It’s the Stuart Biscuit Company. When I was your age, they used to let us in a side door, where we could buy a bag of broken biscuits for two cents, and some
times a couple of us chipped in to buy a bag.”
“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”
On the next street Jacob Two-Two’s father said, “In winter, we used to play street hockey out here, using a piece of coal for a puck, because that’s all we could afford.”
“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”
“And when the game was over, we’d fight over who got to keep the piece of coal, which could be added to the furnace fires that kept our homes from freezing. Now, you, on the other hand, are lucky enough to attend the most expensive private school in town. So I don’t want to hear any more complaints about your lunches. As it happens, they are prepared by my old schoolfriend Perfectly Loath-some Leo Louse, who enjoys an excellent reputation as a cook.”
When they got home Jacob Two-Two took his problem to his mother.
“Well now,” she said, opening the oven to test a baked potato, “you must remember that the starving children of Africa would be grateful for any kind of school lunch. And isn’t it possible that you’re exaggerating, darling, if only just a little?”
“No, I’m not. I’m not.”
“Jake, if I talk to you any more now, our dinner will burn.”
So Jacob Two-Two raced to the CHILD POWER Command Tent in the backyard to consult with the dynamic duo, Noah and Emma, alias the fearless O’Toole and the intrepid Shapiro.
“What did you bring us?” asked Emma, blocking the entrance.
“A problem,” said Jacob Two-Two, pushing past her. “A problem.” And then he told them about it.
“CHILD POWER is overwhelmed with problems these days,” said the fearless O’Toole, alias Noah.
“Busy, busy, busy,” said the intrepid Shapiro, alias Emma.
“We have a report of a babysitter who raids refrigerators and then blames it on the kids left in her charge.”
“Then there’s the case of the apartment building that won’t rent to families whose kids keep rabbits, gerbils, snakes, cats, hamsters, canaries, dogs, or other pets.”
“But I’m your brother,” said Jacob Two-Two. “My problem should come first.”
Jacob Two-Two-'S First Spy Case Page 2