Alvin Fernald, Superweasel

by Clifford B. Hicks

  “Are you going to tell me who you really are?”

  Alvin shook his head.

  “Well, you’d better get out of here. Biggs and those guards will be coming out here any minute.”

  “Thanks!” Alvin croaked behind his mask.

  “You can count on my help, Superweasel. You need publicity. Right? I’ll give you plenty of publicity, as long as you don’t try any vandalism, any real destruction of anyone else’s property. You understand? No vandalism! Right?”

  “No vandalism!” croaked Alvin over his shoulder as he ran for the fence.

  The first flashbulb popped when he was halfway up the fence, and from then on they flashed just as fast as Mr. Moser could operate the camera. Superweasel threw himself over the top and was halfway down the other side when there was a shout from the direction of the factory. He glanced back to see the guards and Mr. Biggs running toward Mr. Moser.

  Alvin had just dropped to the ground when he heard Mr. Biggs exclaim angrily, “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “Who can stop Superweasel?” asked Mr. Moser quietly. “Now, Mr. Biggs, why don’t you tell me about that smelly stuff that’s flooding your factory grounds? You’ve been dumping it in the river. Right?”

  Superweasel raced off into the night. His cape flowed regally out behind, and Alvin knew how Superman must feel during his adventures. It gave him a sense of superpower.

  Chapter 8

  Victory — and a New Enemy

  Three weary kids sneaked back into two houses — but only after they had hidden the Superweasel costume and Shoie’s smelly pants in the “clubhouse” they had built from scrap lumber years before. The little shed was out on the back corner of Shoie’s lot; not much smell should reach the house.

  Sunday passed uneventfully. Monday, though, brought new developments.

  On Monday morning Alvin and Shoie, through no fault of their own, got into trouble at school. Miss Miles announced that she wanted a progress report from each student on his — or her — antipollution project. Windy Biggs went to great lengths, and long words, to explain his analysis of the chemicals in each of the different detergents available to housewives.

  I’ll bet he didn’t do a bit of that work, thought Alvin. I’ll bet his dad had it done for him, at the laboratory in the chemical plant.

  Worm Wormley stuttered out the fact that he had posted No Littering signs in eighteen d-d-d-d-d-separate spots around Riverton. And Speedy Glomitz announced that so far he had planted six small trees donated to his project by Sally Barclay, whose husband ran the Riverton Nursery.

  “What about you, Alvin?” asked Miss Miles.

  He had dreaded the question. How could he say a word? He’d taken a blood oath — at least an iodine one — not to reveal anything about Superweasel.

  “Well, Shoie and I are doing sort of a special kind of a project together.”

  Miss Miles seemed to be waiting for him to say more. At last she said, “Well, Alvin, what sort of a special kind of a project?”

  “Well — well — we’re trying to get people to — to stop polluting their environment.”

  “We’re all trying to do that, Alvin. Just how are you doing it?”

  “I’d rather not say just now, Miss Miles.” He evaded her eyes, glancing around the room. He found himself staring at Windy Biggs. Windy had a strange look on his face.

  “Alvin, I hope you and Wilfred are not just ignoring this assignment.”

  As they walked up the sidewalk, on their way to Alvin’s room, Alvin noticed the afternoon paper on the front steps. “Wow! Look at that, old bean!” he exclaimed.

  At least half the front page was covered with a huge picture of Superweasel scrambling up the fence, his masked face looking straight down at the camera.

  Alvin studied the picture for a moment, admiring how handsome he was as a caped crusader. Then he headed through the front door and up the stairs to his room. The Pest was already inside, holding the Foolproof Burglar Alarm so it wouldn’t clobber Shoie.

  “Doggone it!” Alvin said. “How did you get in here? I double-locked my room this morning.”

  “I have ways,” she said with a smile.

  Alvin was too excited to pursue the argument. He launched himself onto his bed, landed on his stomach, opened the paper flat on the bedspread, and propped his head in his hands.

  “Read it aloud,” said Shoie.

  “Well, you can see the big headline from anywhere in the room. It says:

  MYSTERY FIGURE STARTS ANTIPOLLUTION WAR!

  A strange masked figure calling himself Superweasel Saturday night launched an all-out fight on the environmental polluters of Riverton.

  The unknown man, dressed in a humorous costume that looks like a cross between a weasel and Superman, dammed a sewage pipe belonging to the Biggs Chemical Company. Unknown to city and state environmental authorities, the pipe was discharging an extremely poisonous material into the Weasel River. On Saturday the dammed-up effluent backed up into the Biggs factory. As a result, the factory had to remain closed today because of the bad odor.

  In a rare example of audacity, Superweasel invaded the locked Biggs plant and, despite armed guards, ran a homemade flag up the flagpole. Across the flag were printed the words “Beware, polluters! Superweasel will strike again!”

  The person who calls himself Superweasel apparently has magic powers. At approximately the same time he was seen at the plant, several dead fish, poisoned by the chemical effluent, were tossed into a swimming pool on the estate of Mr. Randolph E. Biggs, owner and president of the plant. A sign was taped to the swimming pool gate reading:

  Here are some fish, some poor dead fish —

  You killed them with a smell;

  You must be proud, you nasty man...

  I hope you go to — jail.

  The note was signed Superweasel.

  Through a remarkable set of circumstances, this reporter had the opportunity to conduct a short interview with Superweasel as he was escaping from the locked plant. At that time he “swore vengeance on all polluters of our environment.” He said that anyone he caught in any type of pollution would “suffer the same type of damage as that person was doing to the environment.”

  “Hey, old bean,” said Shoie, with a big grin on his face. “You sure do spout the big words.”

  “That isn’t exactly what I said. I think Mr. Moser is putting words in Superweasel’s mouth to help in our battle against pollution. It’s not a bad idea — what he said there. Superweasel should punish polluters in exactly the same way they are punishing the environment. That’s what we did Saturday night. We smelled up Mr. Biggs, his factory and his swimming pool, but good. And we didn’t do any real damage.”

  “Read some more, Alvin!” begged the Pest. “Please.”

  Just last week, Biggs had stated unequivocally to the Daily Bugle that his plant was not polluting the environment in any manner, and categorically denied that he was dumping any effluent into the Weasel River.

  Superweasel’s exploit in damming the sewer pipe caused Biggs to reconsider his former statement. When he was asked about the discharge of the plant’s effluent into the river, he reluctantly announced that this had been done without his knowledge, and that he would fire those persons responsible.

  “We will clear up this matter immediately,” Biggs promised, “regardless of cost.”

  “Oh, Alvin, we did it,” said the Pest. “Now the river can really be cleaned up.”

  “And maybe we’ll be able to fish in Three Oaks Pond again before long,” said Shoie.

  But Alvin was interested in the last few lines of the newspaper article:

  The Daily Bugle, on Saturday night, transmitted an article regarding Superweasel and his exploits on the Amalgamated Press wire. As a result, countless questions regarding Superweasel and his identity have been asked by other newspapers.

  Under these circumstances it appears questionable whether Superweasel will make any further appearances.

&
nbsp; Alvin folded the paper. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up straight. For a moment no one said a word. Alvin broke the silence. “Well? Where will Superweasel strike next?”

  “Strike next?” echoed the Pest.

  “We don’t dare, old bean,” said Shoie. “Everybody will be looking for Superweasel now.”

  “Of course we dare,” proclaimed Alvin. “Superweasel is the world’s bravest pollution fighter!”

  Alvin fed the problem into the Magnificent Brain.

  “Lets see, now,” he said, thinking aloud. “We’ve struck a blow to clean up water pollution. There are, of course, other ways of polluting the environment. For example, air pollution. Superweasel must now strike a blow against air polluters.”

  “But who are they?” asked the Pest. “Our teacher told us it was the car drivers.”

  “That’s true,” said the Magnificent Brain dreamily. “Each car owner contributes to the air pollution.”

  The Pest got to her feet, thought, whirled about, and said:

  “Let’s go, let’s go, to outer space,

  To Jupiter and Mars;

  We must escape this polluted place

  It’s ruined by our cars.”

  “However,” Alvin went on, as though he hadn’t even heard her, “it would be difficult for Superweasel to strike back at particular car owners. Therefore he must strike at another big type of air polluter.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Just think for a minute,” continued the Magnificent Brain smoothly. “There is one big air polluter in this town.”

  Silence. Then, “I know!” exclaimed Shoie. “Mom complains every time she hangs out her wash.”

  “Right. Every morning the foundry, out on the west side of town, fires up its furnaces. By eight o’clock the smoke is really rolling out of that high smokestack. And the prevailing winds blow it right over Riverton.”

  “What does ‘prevailing’ mean?” asked the Pest.

  “It means ‘most of the time.’ The wind blows from the west most of the time around here, so Riverton gets all the soot from that foundry smokestack.”

  “Hey, Brain! What can Superweasel possibly do to cut that kind of air pollution?”

  “I don’t know yet. Let’s ride out to the foundry and take a look. Maybe we’ll get an idea on the spot.”

  Mrs. Fernald was in the kitchen baking cookies, and the smell went all through the house. The kids paused just long enough for samples. When she held out a full cookie sheet, the Pest took two cookies, Alvin took five, and Shoie carefully picked up eight. Alvin’s mother looked down at the cookie sheet. There was one cookie left on it. She shook her head in disbelief. Then she looked up at Alvin and said, “Where are you kids going?”

  “Oh, just out for a bike ride,” said Alvin.

  “What about your homework? You know your father and I weren’t very pleased with your last report card. Why don’t you do your homework right now?”

  “That’s what I’m doing, Mom,” replied Alvin. Before she had a chance to reply he slipped through the back door and ran for his bike.

  After all, what he’d told her was the truth. He was going out to do his homework.

  Chapter 9

  On Top of Old Smokey

  Again it was dark, and Superweasel was out there, somewhere, roaming the night in search of the scalawags and scoundrels who pollute the planet.

  Actually, Superweasel — all three of him — was just then approaching the foundry.

  If anyone with especially good vision had been watching, he would have seen three small figures scurry across the parking lot and head for the big smokestack in the back of the building. The lead figure was the smallest—slim and lithe, topped by a halo of burnished gold. Behind the second figure trailed a cape, as black as the night itself. And the tallest figure was straining under the burden of a heavy pack.

  The three figures reached the base of the smokestack and crouched there, panting.

  Finally, “Are you ready, old bean?” It was Shoie’s voice.

  “Don’t rush me.” The words were muffled by the mask. “Are you sure you brought everything?”

  “Check. The rope and the pulley are in my pack. The other stuff is hidden over there on the edge of the parking lot. I’ll go back and get it while you’re climbing.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t scared, Alvin?” asked the Pest.

  “Of course I’m scared. Scared to death. But Superweasel has declared war on all polluters. If I could climb that dumb old fence out at the chemical plant, I can climb this smokestack. It even has a ladder going up it. Shoie, give me the pulley and one end of the rope.”

  From the depths of the pack Shoie brought forth a pulley. It was a big one, with a heavy hook on the top. Alvin reached up under his Superweasel shirt and hooked the pulley to one of his belt loops. Then he took the end of the rope and tied it to his belt. He took a deep breath.

  “Ready?” asked Shoie.

  Alvin didn’t answer because he knew his voice would shake. Instead he reached out one hand and felt across the bricks of the smokestack until he touched one of the iron rungs that were embedded in the bricks; they had been installed to allow inspection and repair of the stack.

  Alvin felt upward along the rungs until he could grip one about shoulder height. As he stepped up on the bottom rung a cold wind seemed to blow down the back of his neck.

  The adventure had been planned three days ago, when they had cycled over to inspect the chimney. They had ridden around the parking lot as though they were playing bike tag. They watched the heavy black smoke belching from the smokestack.

  “Wow!” said Shoie in awe. “How can we do anything about that?”

  “Superweasel has superstrength,” said Alvin. “See that ladder on the side? We’ll use that to climb up and plug the top of the chimney.”

  “Who will climb up and plug the top of the chimney?”

  There was a pause. Then Alvin said, “You will. You’re the best athlete in Roosevelt School. Besides, I don’t want to cheat you — it’s your turn to wear the Superweasel costume.”

  “Oh, no! Not me! I know I’m a good athlete, but I can’t stand heights. Just the thought of going up there scares me.”

  “I’ll do it,” offered the Pest.

  Alvin thought for a moment. There was some danger involved. He couldn’t let her do it. His best bet was to shame Shoie into doing it. “No. If Shoie’s going to be chicken, then I’ll do it myself.”

  “Well, I am chicken. I don’t mind saying so. I’ll do anything else, but I won’t climb that smokestack.”

  Now, pausing with his foot on the bottom rung, Alvin realized that he didn’t particularly like high places himself.

  Finally Shoie said in a quiet voice, “You know, we don’t have to do it, old man. We can go home. Nobody will ever know the difference.”

  “We’ll know the difference. And in particular, I’ll know the difference. I said I’d climb it, and I will. Pest, you keep the rope from tangling while I climb. Shoie, you go back over there and get the other stuff we need. Superweasel is on his way!”

  The first few rungs weren’t bad—no worse than climbing the tree outside his bedroom window. After about thirty steps, he looked down.

  That was a mistake. In the dim light he could see the Pest’s little face looking up at him, and already she seemed a long way below.

  “How are you doing, old bean?” Shoie’s voice was a hoarse whisper floating up to him.

  Alvin made himself answer. “Fine. Just fine. Resting here for a minute.”

  “Boy, I’m sure glad I’m not up there!” muttered Shoie.

  Alvin wished he hadn’t heard Shoie’s last words. He looked up at the curved, brick stack that reached high above him.

  Superweasel gritted his teeth, and took another step upward, then another, then another. Soon he found himself climbing steadily.

  Even though it was a chilly spring night, the mask was getting hot. He stopped for
a rest. He hung on with one hand while he shoved the mask up on top of his head. There. That helped. Now he could breathe better, and see better, too.

  Suddenly he was sorry he’d pushed up the mask. He had made the mistake of glancing downward again, and the sight paralyzed him. The rope, tied to his belt, trailed down into the nothingness below. The floodlights on the parking lot looked like tiny stars. He couldn’t even see his sister, or Shoie.

  Alvin began feeling sick to his stomach. The streetlights of Riverton, far below, seemed to be wheeling around in big circles. He closed his eyes and hung onto the ladder with both hands, clung so hard that he began losing all feeling in his fingers. At that point he called on the Magnificent Brain for help.

  “Mustn’t get sick,” said the M.B. Alvin took at least a dozen deep breaths of the cool night air. That helped.

  “Open your eyes. Look up, but not down.”

  His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that his forehead ached. He opened them a slit, and glanced upward.

  Instantly he felt better. The top of the smokestack was very close above his head, no more than ten or twelve steps upward. He shook his head back and forth to clear the last of the cobwebs, then began climbing once more. At last, he felt the rough brickwork of the top of the chimney. He took one more step and looked across the top of the chimney.

  Superweasel had won. He had not only conquered the smokestack, but had won his battle with himself.

  Alvin was slightly surprised — and disturbed — at the smell that drifted up the stack and eddied around his head. Apparently they never let the fire in the foundry go out completely. He didn’t know what kind of fuel they used, but he certainly didn’t like the smell. Again he got a bit sick to his stomach.

  Superweasel knew he couldn’t stay there long, in those fumes atop the smokestack, so he went to work. He was hampered by his costume, and by the fact that he had to hang on with one hand while working with the other. He fumbled with the pulley, getting it off his belt loop, and hooked it to the top rung of the ladder.

  He had difficulty untying the rope from his belt with just one hand. To solve the problem, he first pulled up some slack so he could poke the rope under the thumb of the hand that held onto the ladder. Then, ignoring the knot in the rope, he simply unbuckled his belt and jerked it loose from his pants. The knot slid off the belt. However, the belt whipped through the night air like a snake, gave a loud snap, and went sailing off into the blackness.