by Matthew Ward
With that, Cordelia—who’d been standing just within earshot—lunged past Ruby and caught Rupert across the nose with her knuckles.
“Shut your mouth, Goldwin scum!” she cried and promptly tackled the boy to the floor. “Nobody talks that way about my brother but me!”
As she proceeded to pummel Rupert about the chest and face, the members of both families flocked to the commotion and began grappling against one another.
“Come on, losers!” shouted Roland Goldwin. “Back for another beating already?”
“I’ll show you a beating!” Henry roared.
“Get her off me!” cried Rupert.
The incident surely would have escalated to an all-out brawl, had Mr. Whipple not swooped in the next moment and pulled his daughter off the battered boy beneath her.
“Enough!” he shouted.
The families stopped their scuffling.
“This is not how we concede a competition!”
Mr. Whipple stepped back a few feet and lowered the struggling girl to the ground. “Cordelia—stay back.”
“But—”
“Back.”
Mr. Whipple gave his daughter a firm look, then turned and approached Rex Goldwin. “My apologies, Mr. Goldwin. I’m afraid Cordelia tends to be a bit excitable.”
“Excitable?” scoffed Rex. “I thought I was going to have to fetch the fire hose.”
“Yes, well I’d hate for you to think of us as unsportsmanlike after all we’ve been through. So please, hear me out. Though I must say I utterly and completely despise your methods, winning the World Record World Championships is a remarkable accomplishment—by any means. It’s not easy for me to say this, but . . .” Mr. Whipple extended his right hand. “. . . congratulations, Rex.”
Rex tilted his head in pleasant surprise. “Well now,” he smiled, “that’s more like it, Charlie. There’s no need for hostility. Honestly, I don’t see any reason we shouldn’t all be the best of friends—now that our contract’s been fulfilled and this whole rivalry nonsense is behind us.”
“Neither do I,” said Mr. Whipple. “Well, unless of course, you count the time you tried to crush all our party guests—or the time you had our chef sent to prison—or the time you maimed our dog—or the time you kidnapped our son and held him in your dungeon—or, come to think of it, any of the numerous times you tried to murder us in cold blood. Apart from these minor examples, though, I can’t see a reason in the world we shouldn’t be friendly.”
“Goodness, Charlie—it almost sounds like you blame me for all that.”
“I’m afraid I do, Mr. Goldwin. And I’m afraid we’ll still be contacting the authorities just as soon as tonight’s festivities have ended. It may be difficult to catch you in the act as we had hoped, now that your plan to have your two sons murder us has been precluded by your win here, but we will not stop until we’ve proved you guilty of the crimes you’ve tried to pin on our poor chef Sammy. You may have got away with the cup, but you won’t get away with your criminal deeds as well. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Charlie,” said Rex, feigning a concerned sigh. “I just can’t see why you’d want to pursue such a pointless course of action. If there was any foul play, I’ve already told you: it was the twins’ doing. You’ll never pin anything on me.”
“It won’t stop me trying.”
“Fair enough. It’s your own time you’ll be wasting. Thanks to our little rivalry contract, you’re now barred from competing against us in any event we choose to enter for the next two years—and believe me: we’ll choose to enter a lot of them. All the extra time you’ve got will have to be spent scraping up other events to take part in, if you hope to even come close to your current rate of record breaking. Meanwhile, we’ll only get better and better. And pretty soon, you’ll have no chance at beating us in anything.”
“There are more important things than beating your family, Mr. Goldwin,” said Arthur’s father. “But yes,” he added with a sigh, “you must be very proud of getting me to sign that contract now. It was my own pride, of course, that drove me to make such a foolish agreement. And for that, I must apologize to my family. I’ve made things unduly difficult for them, I’m afraid.” He turned to his wife and gave a sad smile, but she returned it with a twinkling nod of forgiveness. He looked around him to find similar expressions on the faces of Arthur and the rest of the Whipple children. Arthur’s father turned back to Rex with a gleam in his eye. “Still, I wouldn’t count us out just yet. We’ve overcome bigger obstacles—many of them this very day, in fact. But for now, we’d best be off. Enjoy the awards ceremony, Mr. Goldwin.”
“You too, Charlie,” grinned Rex. “I hope your evening isn’t marred too terribly, knowing the cup will be going home with somebody else this year—and likely every other year as well.”
“Your concern is much appreciated, Mr. Goldwin. Good evening, all of you. Competing with you these past months has been . . . eye-opening—to say the least.”
And with that, Mr. Whipple turned and led his family out of the arena as the fireworks continued above them.
• • •
“Must we really go to the awards ceremony, Dad?” Cordelia pleaded as she trudged through the courtyard. “I don’t think I can stomach seeing the Goldwins for one more minute today—much less seeing them presented with the Championship Cup.”
“Cordelia,” scolded her mother, “where have you learned such dreadful sportsmanship? It’s bad enough you’ve already assaulted one of the Goldwins—though I’m sure he more than deserved it—but now to suggest we skip the awards altogether simply because we haven’t won the top prize? Honestly, I know it’s new to us, this losing business, and bound to cause some discomfort, but I wonder sometimes if so much winning has actually done us a fair bit of harm.”
Cordelia sighed and hung her head, and the Whipples resumed their march across the courtyard. They had not gone far when Arthur stopped them again.
“I don’t mean to be contradictory,” said Arthur, “but I have to say I’d rather not go either. I know it’s unsportsman-like—but I just feel so awful about losing the cup for all of you. You’ve all been really great, not calling me names or disowning me or anything—but I still can’t help feeling I’ve let you all down. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit through the ceremony without being physically ill.”
“Ah—don’t feel bad, Arthur,” replied Cordelia. “Look on the bright side. Now that the Goldwins have won, at least we don’t have to worry about being blown up by those lunatic twins of theirs. And besides—it’s not your fault we didn’t win. We all lost events this week—a whole lot more of them than you did.”
“Yeah, Arthur,” Simon agreed. “You had all the pressure on your shoulders only because we failed to win so many of our own events.”
“And you were really incredible out there,” added Henry. “You lost in far better style than any of us managed to do this week. I mean, all that blood sloshing about the stage—that looked completely fantastic! You really made us proud today, Brother.”
“Absolutely,” said Cordelia. “You were great, Arthur. It’s not the losing I mind so much—I mean, I do, I really do, it’s killing me inside—but I’ll get over it. The truly agonizing part, though . . . is losing to them.”
“Yeah,” the other children sighed.
“All right,” snapped Mr. Whipple. “That’s enough self-pity for one evening. We’re all going to the awards ceremony tonight, and we’re all going to enjoy ourselves. First: because we are not a family of unsporting milksops—and second: because we’ve earned it. Regardless of the final outcome, we’ve all made some incredible accomplishments this week. We were cursed with opponents who regularly resorted to sabotage and violence—and yet, we very nearly beat them, without ever sinking to their level. And when we were forced to choose between winning the cup or
rescuing our family, we made the right choice. And for that, I am exceedingly proud. Indeed, I am prouder of nearly winning this cup than I am of all the cups we’ve ever actually won. Because it was this cup that made our family whole for the first time.”
Mr. Whipple looked to Arthur and smiled. Arthur couldn’t help but smile back.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” his father added, “this family has not lost its zeal for record breaking—certainly not after the way it’s brought us all together today. First thing tomorrow, we begin the task of winning the cup back from the Goldwins at the next championships, in spite of their precious rivalry contract. But tonight, we celebrate everything we accomplished this year. Let’s enjoy second place while we’ve got it; we’re not likely to have the experience ever again, now are we?”
Arthur and the other Whipples shook their heads.
“Very well then, let’s get ourselves cleaned up and ready for the ceremony. The Goldwins may have placed first in the competition this year, but they’ve got another thing coming if they think they can top us tonight—in dignity or in style!”
The Whipples Accept Defeat
As the Whipples’ triple-decker limousine slowed to a halt outside the entrance of the Opulerium Theatre, Arthur’s heart swelled with excitement and dread.
Though he had attended several WRWC Awards ceremonies before, this was the first time he had actually participated in the tournament—and thus, the first time he had not felt completely out of place there. And yet, these were not at all the circumstances under which he had hoped to attend his first awards ceremony as an official competitor. His participation in the tournament, after all, had ended rather disappointingly—and now, the legions of reporters and photographers swarming around the red carpet before him only served to remind him of that fact.
He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“Arthur,” Mr. Whipple said with a smile, “will you do us the honor of leading us out?”
“I—I don’t know, sir,” Arthur replied. “Do you really think that’s appropriate? I mean, wouldn’t you rather have someone representing us who actually won an event?”
“Indeed, I would not,” answered his father. “Do you still not believe me, boy? When I said I could not be any prouder of you, I meant it. Perhaps you’ll doubt me less when you see your entire family following you up the red carpet. So now then . . . after you.”
Mr. Whipple gestured to the car door, and Arthur drew a deep breath. “Well, if you’re absolutely certain you want me to . . .”
Mr. Whipple nodded.
“All right then,” Arthur nodded back.
Wilhelm appeared outside the car window, and Arthur quickly straightened his bow tie and adjusted his lapel. A moment later, the valet opened the door.
Strobing blasts of white light struck the boy as he stepped from the car, freezing his limbs and face in various poses: his foot meeting the plush pile of the crimson carpet; his hand tugging on a cufflink; his top lip curled in startled astonishment.
The frequency of flashbulb-fire decreased considerably as the cameramen realized the boy’s identity—but it was still more media attention than Arthur had ever received, so he thought nothing of the falloff and simply walked through the parted sea of celebrity seekers.
“Arthur,” shouted one reporter, “that was quite an attempt you made this evening! You really had the crowd on the edge of their seats!”
Arthur turned to the reporter and smiled. Not only was this the first time he’d received a compliment from a reporter, it was the first time he’d ever been addressed by a reporter at all. He felt so honored and privileged, he could scarcely remember why it was he’d been feeling so disappointed.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad people got to see a good speed-stocking match. I hope it helps spread awareness of this fine, underappreciated sport. Of course,” he added with a smile, “I’d have liked to have won it as well, but I’m afraid tonight just wasn’t my night.”
“Indeed it wasn’t,” the reporter said, frowning. “Does it trouble you to think you may have missed your last chance to live up to your family’s now-fading reputation? And what do you say to speculation that your loss today could be the final nail in the Whipples’ coffin?”
Arthur’s mouth hung open. “Er . . . I . . .” he stuttered.
The reporter pressed the microphone into Arthur’s chin.
“I—well . . .”
At that moment, Arthur’s father stepped in front of him. “My son, I am happy to say,” Mr. Whipple interjected, “has no need at all to prove himself a part of this family. He is—and always will be—as valued a Whipple as any other.”
Arthur looked back to see his entire family standing behind him, smiling in agreement with their father as flashbulbs went off around them.
“And as for our family’s reputation and future,” continued Mr. Whipple, “you can rest assured we shall not be leaving the world records game anytime soon—though we do hope to be known henceforth for more than just record breaking. In fact, tonight we would like to announce the beginning of a new era in our family’s history. From now on, we . . .”
But before Arthur’s father could finish his sentence, the reporter yanked the microphone away—and joined the rest of the crowd in a sudden scurry back toward the street.
Arthur and the other Whipples turned just in time to see a gold-plated car eleven doors long pull up to the curb and stop.
For several seconds nothing happened, save the continued pop of flashbulbs. But then, in perfect synchronization, all eleven doors opened at once—and out stepped the Goldwins, one through each door.
The crowd of reporters swarmed about them.
“Rex!” one man shouted. “How does it feel to have finally put an end to the Whipples’ reign?”
“Rupert!” shouted another. “Is it true you’ve been chosen as The Record’s Boy of the Year?”
Though the Whipples were too far away to hear the Goldwins’ responses, the questions were upsetting enough in themselves. Left alone at the top of the red carpet, Arthur and his siblings looked to their father in dismay.
Mr. Whipple only smiled. “It’s all right,” he said. “Let the dog have his day. Tonight our sole concern is having fun. You remember fun, don’t you? It’s that thing we used to have before we became completely obsessed with beating the Goldwins. Now, I realize I was largely to blame for that; I have not exactly been ‘Mr. Fun’ these past months. But tonight, that all changes. Tonight, I am indeed Mr. Fun—no, Dr. Fun. Dr. Fun, with a doctorate in Funology. And a master’s in Leisure Sciences.”
Mr. Whipple gripped his lapel and pulled a comically serious face. “Hey, look,” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing through the lobby doors. “With everyone off chasing the Goldwins, there’s no wait at the Chocolate Bar! Who wants first bite of a chocolate barstool?”
And with that, he dashed for the doorway.
The Whipple children raced after their father and into the theater lobby, leaving all thoughts of the Goldwins behind them.
When George had finished the last drop of chocolate sauce from the chocolate hip flask he had sneaked into the darkened theater under his jacket, he took a bite of the flask itself, then passed it to Arthur.
After biting off the top corner, Arthur offered a bite to Ruby in the seat to his left, then handed it back to his little brother, who proceeded to pass it to the rest of the Whipple children to his right. As it reached the other end of the row, Mr. Whipple glanced disapprovingly at the chocolaty lump of contraband—then grinned slyly and finished it off in one bite.
A spotlight popped on at center stage to reveal a short, balding man behind a microphone. Arthur recognized him instantly as “Nonstop” Norman Prattle, the same man who had hosted the Whipple Family Birthday Extravaganza several months earlier.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” said No
nstop Norman in his rich, nasally voice, “to the fifty-eighth World Record World Championships Awards!”
The audience applauded.
“And what a year it’s been for world-record breaking, has it not? Let’s see. . . .” The announcer scratched his head. “We’ve had tragic falls, epic rises, villainous treachery, and vulgar scandal . . . and that was just at the Whipples’ birthday party!”
The audience hooted with laughter.
Arthur looked to his father, expecting to see a picture of outrage—but to the boy’s surprise, his father simply stood from his seat and bowed playfully to the crowd.
The audience laughed even louder.
“That’s right folks,” shouted Nonstop Norman, “enjoy him while you can—this may be the last we’ll ever see of him!”
The laughter swelled again.
Mr. Whipple saluted the announcer with a wry smile, then returned to his seat.
“And there he goes, ladies and gents—a member of a vanishing species: Whipplus obsoletus!”
This time, the laughter sounded a bit forced.
“All right—I’d better get on with it then. Wouldn’t want the Whipples to sic their sabotaging chef on me, would I? Oh wait—he’s off in hiding now, isn’t he? Word on the street is he’s been taken in by a family of sewer rats—but they’re afraid to eat his cooking!”
The crowd fidgeted in their seats. Even they, it seemed, had some standards.
“Ahem,” coughed Nonstop Norman. “Presenting the first award of the evening, for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Human Strength—five-time beef-lifting champion and founder of the Prime Cut Butcher Shop and Alternative Gym—Tony Stoutberger!”
• • •
Over the next two hours, a team of celebrity presenters distributed awards in each of the eighty-five IWRF-recognized categories of world-record breaking.
Despite the rather grating comments of the show’s host, Arthur and his family managed to enjoy themselves in a way they had never managed to do before. Seeing for the first time that the Championship Cup could be taken from them, the Whipples were all the more grateful for the awards they did receive. Though it was difficult to watch the Goldwins’ trainer, Rinaldo Fabroni, win the Human Strength award over their own dear butler, Wilhelm, the Whipples could hardly contain their pride when the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Unsafe Sport went to their son Henry. And while they had to sit through Rupert Goldwin accepting the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Hygiene, and then his sister, Rosalind, being honored for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Bone Structure, the Whipples also got to watch Beatrice receive the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Food Consumption—and Franklin, for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Seafaring.