Alvin Fernald, Superweasel

by Clifford B. Hicks

  Alvin Fernald,

  Superweasel

  by Clifford B. Hicks

  illustrated by Bill Sokol

  Purple House Press

  Kentucky

  Published by

  Purple House Press

  PO Box 787, Cynthiana, KY 41031

  All rights reserved.

  Text Copyright © 1974 by Clifford B. Hicks

  Text Copyright renewed © 2002 by Clifford B. Hicks

  Illustrations Copyright © 1974 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston Inc.

  Illustrations Copyright renewed © 2002 by Clifford B. Hicks

  Afterword copyright © 2005 by Clifford B. Hicks

  Summary: Alvin’s pollution project is geared to expose the biggest polluter in town — the owner of the chemical plant.

  Read more about our Classic Books for Children at

  www.PurpleHousePress.com

  First Electronic Edition. February 2012

  for Melissa,

  and all who come after

  More books by Clifford B. Hicks

  from Purple House Press

  The Marvelous Inventions of Alvin Fernald

  Alvin Fernald’s Incredible Buried Treasure

  Alvin’s Swap Shop — coming soon!

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  More books by Clifford B. Hicks

  1. The Assignment

  2. Birth of a Superhero

  3. The First Superadventure

  4. Superweasel Strikes!

  5. A Strategy Meeting

  6. A Loud Rip In The Night

  7. Who Can Stop Superweasel?

  8. Victory — and a New Enemy

  9. On Top of Old Smokey

  10. Superhero of the Town

  11. Superweasel is a Bum

  12. Double Trouble

  13. The Superplan Unfolds

  14. What’s Going on Here

  15. The Junk Parade

  16. At the City Hall

  17. Superweasel’s Final Adventure

  18. Unmasked!

  19. A Grade for Superweasel

  Author’s Note

  Preview of The Marvelous Inventions of Alvin Fernald

  Preview of Alvin Fernald’s Incredible Buried Treasure

  Chapter 1

  The Assignemnt

  Alvin Fernald slumped at his desk as Miss Miles droned on. He was amusing himself with a silent mental exercise. His opponent was his own Magnificent Brain. “Seat four, row two,” Alvin whispered silently to himself.

  “Room 201,” responded his Magnificent Brain just as silently.

  The whole idea of the game was to describe, in graduated steps, where the players were while they were playing the game.

  “Roosevelt School,” said Alvin.

  “Town of Riverton.”

  “Melrose County.”

  “State of Indiana.”

  “North Central States.” Alvin was proud of that one. He’d never thought of it before.

  “United States of America.”

  “North American Continent.”

  “Northern Hemisphere.” Ah! There was another new one, this time scored by the Magnificent Brain.

  “Planet Earth.”

  “Solar system!” shot back the Magnificent Brain, believing it had won the contest.

  “UNIVERSE!” Alvin banged his feet on the floor and shouted it aloud.

  “Alvin!” The voice came from the general direction of Miss Miles’s desk. “Alvin, please return from outer space by the first available rocketship and help us solve the serious problems we have here on Earth.”

  Alvin sat up straight. “What problems, Miss Miles?” he asked weakly.

  “During your absence, the rest of the class has been discussing the pollution of our environment. I assume you know what pollution means, Alvin?”

  “Yes’m. It means dirt.”

  Oliver Biggs, better known to the kids as Big Wind, or just plain Windy, snorted. Promptly the rest of the class giggled. Miss Miles turned to Windy, who was seated just in front of Alvin.

  “Oliver, please explain to Alvin what pollution is.”

  “Pollution,” said Windy in his superior voice, turning to look at Alvin, “is the contamination of our environment — land, water or air — with any foreign substance. Anything from a bubblegum wrapper to a deadly poison can be a pollutant. Even unnecessary noise is considered a pollutant. In general, however, pollutants are usually defined as toxic substances.”

  Windy always uses big words to impress everybody, thought Alvin. Well, he doesn’t impress me. Miss Miles was writing the word “pollution” on the blackboard and couldn’t see him, so Alvin bonked Windy on the head. The class laughed. Miss Miles whirled around.

  “This subject is no joke,” she said. “It is a deadly serious matter. We are poisoning our planet, and doing it very rapidly.”

  Miss Miles glanced at some notes on her desk. “Let me give you just one true illustration. A few years ago two men entered a bank in London, drew pistols, and escaped with the British equivalent of $22,000 in cash. They couldn’t be recognized because they were wearing masks before they entered the door. And their disguises were perfect because everyone else in London was wearing a mask, or had a scarf tied over his nose and mouth.”

  Alvin whistled. Miss Miles now had his attention.

  “Was it Halloween?” he asked.

  “No. But at the time of the robbery, London was choking under a blanket of heavy smog. The people had been warned to wear masks because four thousand persons had died in a similar smog not long before.”

  “But that can’t happen here,” Theresa Undermine stated flatly. “Riverton isn’t a big city like London.”

  “In the first place, we should all be concerned about everyone else on our planet,” said Miss Miles sharply, “whether they live in our own town or not. In any case, Theresa, we do have lots of pollution right here in Riverton. The soil all over town is being polluted with chemicals that we ourselves spread, mainly to kill weeds and insects. And not only the soil is affected. According to last night’s paper, our water rates in Riverton are going up because the water is so impure it is taking more treatment to purify it.”

  “What can we do about that?” asked Alvin, mentally seeing a smog-mask covering his Magnificent Brain.

  “There are several things you can do about it, Alvin. I really believe that it will be the children of the world who will clean up our environment — if anyone does.” She paused. “As a matter of fact, that’s the subject of our next assignment.”

  “I suppose you want us to write some dumb old theme on pollution,” said Shoie. Shoie, whose real name was Wilfred Shoemaker, had been Alvin’s closest friend for a zillion years. He was lousy at writing themes, but he was the Mightiest Athlete of Roosevelt School.

  “No. No themes, Wilfred. But I am going to give you an assignment. You’ll have a great deal of freedom to do it in your own way. And you’ll have until the end of the school year to finish it.”

  Alvin groaned. Obviously the class was in for a lot of work.

  “What’s the assignment, Miss Miles?” asked Windy Biggs. “I can hardly wait to get to work on such an important subject.” Windy was always trying to score points with the teacher.

  “‘Hardly wait to get to work,’” mocked Alvin in a whisper.

  Windy glared at him, and the class giggled.

  “That will be enough, Alvin,” Miss Miles said severely. She stood up. “This is a very important assignment, class. I’m assigning each of you, personally, to do something good for our environment — either to help clean it up, or to cut down the rate of pollution. Your project c
an deal with the pollution of the air, the soil, the water — any factor of our environment. And you can do anything you wish — anything at all —” she repeated the words slowly to emphasize them, “but at the end of the school year you will be called on to give an oral report on how you spent your time. That gives you two months to work on your project.”

  “Can two or three of us work together?” asked Theresa. She was smiling hungrily at Shoie, whom she adored. She looks like one of those women vampires on the Saturday night horror show, thought Alvin.

  “Yes. You can join together for your project. But you will be asked for individual reports.”

  “I already know what I’m going to do,” Windy announced. He always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else in the class. “I’m going door to door and ask Riverton housewives to use nonpolluting detergents. Cleansing materials are among our biggest offenders.”

  “Why do you use such big words?” whispered Alvin. Then, more loudly, “You sound like you ate the dictionary for lunch.”

  Worm Wormley, who was sitting across the aisle, started laughing.

  Windy ignored Alvin. “I’ll ask my father to print some information on the subject that I can leave behind in each home.” Mr. Biggs, Windy’s father, was owner of the chemical plant out on Thompson Road.

  He was also one of the richest men in town. All the kids knew this because Windy kept telling them so.

  Theresa was still looking eagerly at Shoie. “Maybe two or three of us could clean up all the trash from the banks of the Weasel River,” she said. The little river ran right through the center of town. It did seem to attract litter.

  “I’m going to p-p-p-post No Littering signs in the p-p-park,” said Worm Wormley, stuttering as he always did when he was excited. “And I’ll get some empty oil drums from the oil company and put them around so p-p-people won’t dump their trash all over the g-g-g-g-g-g—,” he paused and swallowed, “— our environment.”

  “Maybe I’ll plant trees,” said Speedy Glomitz thoughtfully. “Trees help clean up the air,” he added in explanation.

  “I’m going to set up a recycling center,” said The New Kid in Town. Nobody except the teacher ever called him anything but “The New Kid” even though he’d moved to Riverton more than two years before.

  “What’s a recycling center?” asked Alvin.

  “Everyone knows that,” said Windy in his superior way, just as The New Kid opened his mouth. “A recycling center is a collection point where you take all your old bottles and cans. They sort them, and turn them in for reprocessing into new bottles and cans, so they won’t clutter up our environment.”

  Now the ideas came spontaneously from all over the room.

  “I’m going to visit every single house in town,” said Doug Freeland, “and persuade everybody not to burn old trash or leaves. That will keep the air over Riverton a lot cleaner.”

  “Hey, Alvin,” said Theresa, “what are you going to do?”

  Alvin had been asking his Magnificent Brain that same question for ten minutes. Alvin always thought of his Magnificent Brain as something outside himself — as some other person. It was Shoie who had given that “other person” a name — the Magnificent Brain — because it came up with such stupendously crazy ideas. Frequently those ideas got Alvin in trouble, making him the best-known kid in Riverton, even if a lot of adults were a little leery of him. Old Mr. Fitz always crossed the street when he saw Alvin approaching.

  “Just wait,” said Alvin. “I’ve got a great idea. You’ll see.”

  “I bet you don’t have any idea at all,” said Windy jeeringly.

  “You wait. Just wait. I’ll have the best antipollution project you ever heard of.” He knew his voice sounded a bit desperate. “I’ll do more to clean up Riverton than all the rest of you put together. You just wait. You’ll see!

  But the Magnificent Brain was still a blank. Alvin just couldn’t seem to energize the right circuits.

  Alvin Fernald and his friend Shoie took the long way home from school, through the city park. The Weasel River ran right through the park, and they scrambled down the bank of the little stream to look for the first crawdads of the year. The late-March sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky, but there was a black, black cloud hanging over Alvin’s head.

  “It does look kind of scummy,” said Shoie, pointing to the little river.

  “Yeah. And look at all the trash along the bank.”

  There was a long pause. Alvin listlessly picked up a tin can and threw it into the muddy water. He was a short, slim boy with orange hair, and more freckles on one side of his face than the other.

  “What’s the matter, Alvin?” asked Shoie.

  “I lied in school. I don’t really have a pollution project.”

  “I figured that. I think Miss Miles knew it, too.”

  Another pause. Then Shoie said, with no enthusiasm, “Hi, Windy.”

  Alvin looked upstream. Windy was kneeling beside the river, peering down into the water.

  “Hi, Shoie,” Windy said, ignoring Alvin completely.

  “Whatcha’ doing?” asked Shoie.

  “Looking for oil on the surface. That’s another form of environmental pollution.”

  “‘Environmental pollution,’” mimicked Alvin. “Hey, why do you use all those big words? Nobody’s impressed, you know.”

  Windy’s face turned red. “You’d better watch what you say, Alvin Fernald. And you’d better not thump me on the head anymore, either.”

  “Or what?” Alvin picked up an old chunk of concrete and prepared to heave it into the water.

  “Well... Well... Well, I’ll get even. I might tell my dad. I’m warning you. Just watch out.”

  “You’re warning me?” said Alvin as he threw the concrete. Suddenly he had a sense of impending disaster as his foot slipped in the mud at the edge of the water. Flailing his arms wildly, he tried to fling himself back to safety. One arm whipped around in a great half-circle, and he felt the shock in his fingers as his fist smacked Windy squarely on the chest. Windy’s body flipped over in a full somersault, and he suddenly disappeared in the muddy water.

  “Hey! What are you doing, Alvin?” shouted Shoie.

  “I didn’t mean to do it! I slipped!” Alvin reached out a hand to help Windy, but it was ignored.

  “You — you — you’re a nasty kid,” sputtered Windy. Muddy water ran down his face, and his yellow shirt had turned a deep brown. He climbed out, slipping and sliding through the ooze.

  “Honest, Windy! I didn’t do it on purpose! I just slipped.” Alvin knew he was telling the truth, but he also knew he never could persuade Windy that it was the truth. “Honest!”

  “I’ll get even with you, Alvin Fernald!” Windy sputtered as he scrambled up the bank. “You just wait. I’ll tell my father, and he’ll get even with you.”

  The last words were shouted.

  Then there was a sudden and ominous silence as Windy climbed the riverbank and disappeared over the crest.

  Chapter 2

  Birth of a Superhero

  Shoie followed Alvin upstairs. Alvin automatically ducked his head as he opened the door to his room, but Shoie forgot all about the Foolproof Burglar Alarm that Alvin had invented. As the door swung open, a big boxing glove, strapped to the end of a heavy board, shot out and smacked Shoie across the side of the face.

  “Doggone it, Alvin!” shouted Shoie, staggering around the room. “Why don’t you disconnect that thing?”

  “Then how would I keep out burglars?” Alvin slipped out of his school pants and put on a pair of jeans. On his inventing bench he spotted one-half of a peanut butter sandwich left over from the previous afternoon. Carefully judging the size of it, he put his finger on the exact center point, and ate the sandwich up to his fingernail. He handed the remainder to Shoie. Then he lay down on his bed and began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” mumbled Shoie through the stale sandwich.

  “I was just thinking about how
Windy Biggs looked when he climbed out of the river.”

  “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you. He really was mad. He’s sure to tell his old man. Then there’ll be a call to the police station, and the chief will call in your father and tell him.” Alvin’s father was a sergeant on the Riverton Police Force.

  “Maybe. Honest, Shoie, I didn’t push him on purpose. It was an accident.”

  “Talk about pollution,” said Shoie. “Windy was covered with it. Remember how he tried to wipe that slimy stuff out of his eyes?”

  Alvin rolled over on his side, facing Shoie. “Yeah. And that reminds me. What are we going to do for our antipollution project?”

  “I dunno. Check that question through the Magnificent Brain, and see what comes out.”

  Alvin closed his eyes and pulled on his right ear. A moment later he said, “Cars cause lots of pollution. We could stuff a potato up every tail pipe that is spreading smoke.”

  Shoie carefully considered the idea. He had learned long ago not to immediately reject any idea, no matter how wild, that came from the M.B. Finally he said, “N-o-o-o. I don’t think so. Too expensive. All those potatoes would cost a lot of money.”

  Alvin pulled his ear again. “We could sponsor an antipollution dance to raise the money to buy the potatoes to stick in the tail pipes. I’ll bet we could even get the Grubby Toenails to play.” The Grubby Toenails was a high school rock group.

  “Get off that kick, Alvin. Try running the whole thing through the computer again.”

  Alvin squeezed his eyes shut and covered his right ear with his hand. As if it was a pre-arranged signal, the door flew open and a lithe little figure ducked under the boxing glove. The door slammed shut.

  “Hi, Alvin. Hi, Shoie. What’re we going to do this afternoon?”

  “Get out, Pest,” said Alvin ominously. Alvin always called Daphne, his little sister, the Pest. As usual, she was dressed in Alvin’s outgrown jeans, and her halo of straw-colored hair flowed down around her shoulders. She worshipped Alvin and, with or without his permission, she followed him wherever he went.