Mr. Pudgins (Nancy Pearl's Book Crush Rediscoveries)

by Ruth Christoffer Carlsen

It was one of those bad afternoons. Outside, the sidewalks were thick with the slush of a February thaw. Dad was out of town, and Mother had gone to a party in the country. Fortunately, we had been able to persuade Mother to let us have Mr. Pudgins babysit. She was still pretty provoked about the marshmallows and the scratch on her stove, but with Janey’s crying, Pete’s smiling, and my begging, we’d won her over.

  My friends were all off visiting grandmothers or friends or downtown. Janey had the sniffles, and Mother insisted she stay in until it was dry outside. And Pete always did what Janey did. So there were the three of us and Mr. Pudgins with nothing to do and nobody with an idea. Janey and Pete were standing with their noses against the big long mirror in the hall. “I wish,” said Janey, “that the little girl in the mirror could come out to play.”

  “Me too,” chimed in Pete.

  “Because,” said Janey, “if she could come and play, she’d be just the right age for me.” The idea sounded pretty interesting, so I went and looked in, too. And, of course, there were three children looking out at us.

  Just at that moment Petey banged his head against the mirror, and a strange voice said, “Ouch.”

  We all looked at each other, and then we looked at Mr. Pudgins, who was sitting in his favorite easy chair, smoking his pipe. Strange things always seemed to happen when he was smoking that pipe. “Did you say ‘ouch,’ Mr. Pudgins?” asked Janey.

  “Why in the world would I say ‘ouch’?” he replied.

  “But somebody did,” said Janey.

  “I said ‘ow,’” said Pete.

  “Well, ‘ow’ and ‘ouch’ are two different words,” I said with the authority of being the oldest. Then we looked back in the mirror as Petey rubbed his head. The little boy in the mirror was rubbing his head, too. I thought for a moment, and then went up and hit that boy like me in the stomach.

  “Hey, cut that out!” said another voice. I grinned.

  “Come on out of there, dopey, or I’ll hit you again,” I said in a fierce voice.

  “All right, all right. You don’t need to be nasty. Give me a pull.”

  I did, and out of the mirror stepped the boy. He looked like me, he talked like me, but he didn’t walk like me. He floated. I grabbed his hand and said, “Hey, stay down here!”

  “Okay,” said the other boy. “Though it is nice just to drift about.”

  “Oh,” squealed Janey. “Oh, oh, oh. I want my little girl, too. Come on, little girl.” And sure enough, Janey pulled the little girl right out of the mirror.

  “Come on,” yelled Pete as he yanked his mirror boy out of the frame. The three of us looked at the three of them, and they looked back at us. We had to hold on to them tightly, though, or they would have floated right up to the ceiling.

  “What’s your name?” said Janey. Girls always start a conversation that way.

  “Mirjaney,” said the new little girl.

  “Mine’s Janey. They’re sort of alike,” said Janey.

  “My name’s Mirpete,” said the littler boy.

  “And mine’s Mirjohn,” said my friend.

  “Hey!” I was suddenly struck with an idea. “Our names are just alike, except theirs have a Mir in front of them.” I thought some more. “I suppose that’s because they’re mirror children.” I was pretty pleased that I had figured that out.

  “Let’s play a game,” said Janey.

  “Hurray! Hurray!” we all shouted.

  “I know,” said I. “Let’s play ball on our backs. The mirror children can lie on their backs on the ceiling, and we’ll lie on our backs on the floor. Then we can throw the ball up and down to each other.”

  All three of us lay flat on the floor and all three of them floated up to the ceiling. Wham! Wham! The ball went back and forth. It was bad when they missed because sometimes the ball left a mark on the ceiling. Mr. Pudgins suggested we had better play some other game because Mother is fussy about the house looking nice.

  “Let’s play follow-the-leader,” said Pete.

  That sounded like a good idea. It seemed only polite to let our guests lead off, so Mirjohn was the leader. It was odd, but he just seemed bent on doing all the things we had always been told not to do. First, he turned on all the lights and snapped them off again. We had to follow him because he was the leader, and it was kind of fun, especially since we knew we shouldn’t. Then he turned the shower on full force. I insisted that we shouldn’t walk through it with our clothes on since Janey had the sniffles. The mirror children acted hurt, and they went through without us. In Mother and Dad’s bedroom the mirror children took turns using Mother’s lipstick. Boy, we looked like Indians when we filed out of there. It was almost fun to be bad. After all, following the leader was a game, and you couldn’t be a poor sport.

  Whoosh! Down the front stairs we bumped on a piece of cardboard. It was rough sliding, but exciting. It was such fun we did it a dozen times. Then Mirpete wanted to lead, and he headed right for the basement. First, he grabbed a hammer and pounded on a carton. So we all did the same. It was noisy. Then Mirpete saw the old brown wooden icebox and climbed up that and floated down. It wasn’t so easy for the three of us. The climb up was work, but the coming down was fun. We kept that up until Mr. Pudgins’s voice called, “Children, not so much noise.”

  Then we acted very quiet. We crept around the basement on our hands and knees, pretending we were bears or dogs or cows or monkeys. Finally, Mirpete pretended he was a frog and jumped in Mother’s new automatic washing machine. That was bad, because Mirjaney flipped the switch and the machine started. Around and around it whirled Mirpete while we struggled with the switch. It wouldn’t snap to “off.” Finally, I pulled the cord and the motor stopped. Mirpete couldn’t stand up when he got out. He couldn’t float off. He was so dizzy that he just kept turning around and around. I decided we’d better not stay in the basement. We were all pretty tired anyway, so we trooped upstairs to the kitchen.

  “What’ll we do now, Mr. Pudgins?” I asked.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Until he mentioned it, I hadn’t realized how hungry I really was. “Oh, boy! I’ll say I am.”

  “How about some popcorn?” said Mr. Pudgins.

  That was a wonderful idea. I got out our electric popper and the ten-pound can of popcorn which Mother always buys because she says it’s more economical. And we set to work. The first batch certainly hit the spot. We decided to make some more. “Here,” I said, “you mirror children make popcorn while we go downstairs to get some root beer. Come on, Pete and Jane.”

  And then it happened. Petey dropped a big bottle of root beer he was carrying on the basement floor, and the root beer went everywhere. There was only one thing to do: clean up the mess. Janey picked up glass, Petey wiped the walls, and I mopped at the root beer. It took a long time to get it looking neat again. Then we picked up our bottles and started up the stairs. When we stepped into the kitchen, we stopped short. There was popcorn in the dishpan. There was popcorn in every pan and kettle. There was popcorn piled high everywhere.

  “Got a good batch started in the bathtub, too,” said Mirpete.

  “Jumping jiminy,” I shouted. “Why didn’t you stop?”

  “You said, ‘Make popcorn while we’re gone.’ Well, you just got back,” said Mirjohn. “We’re making popcorn.”

  “Oh, gosh! Oh, jiminy! Now what’ll we do? Turn off that thing.”

  Janey ran to pull the plug out, and it wouldn’t budge. We emptied another batch of popcorn in the bathtub. There was no doubt about it, it was about to overflow.

  “Mr. Pudgins,” yelled Pete. “Help, Mr. Pudgins!”

  Mr. Pudgins’s pipe and nose came around the door and then Mr. Pudgins. He looked surprised. “Isn’t that enough popcorn, John?”

  “Can’t you stop it?” I begged.

  So all seven of us pulled on the cord, and whooey blam! We slid across the floor when the plug broke loose. The popcorn popper was stopped, but what were we to do with the popcorn?


  “We’ll have to sell it,” I moaned.

  “Oh, goody, goody,” said Janey who loves to go around to the neighbors.

  “We’ll have to be going now,” said Mirjohn.

  “Hey, you help us clean up the mess,” I shouted.

  “Good-bye,” they whispered, and all three floated past us and right into the mirror. I rushed over and tried to argue with Mirjohnny, but there’s no use trying to talk to a hunk of glass, especially when the other fellow does just the same things you’re doing. I gave up.

  “Get on your bike, Johnny, and go down to the grocery store. Buy ten dozen bags of assorted sizes,” said Mr. Pudgins.

  I was back in a jiffy, though I know Mrs. Henry, our grocer’s wife, was surprised at that order. We salted and buttered the great mass of corn—humps and hills and mountains of popcorn. Then we packed it in the bags, loaded the bags on the wagon, and set off to sell the stuff. It was twilight when we were through. Mr. Pudgins had cleaned up the kitchen, and I was relieved. Honestly, we were all too tired to do more than wiggle our little fingers.

  Mother was surprised when she got home to find us already in bed. She was even more surprised when she heard that we had been out selling popcorn. “How ever do you think of these things, Mr. Pudgins?” she asked. “And to think they made a profit of five dollars and sixty cents. What a constructive idea!”

  I wanted to tell her that there was nothing constructive about it. We had had to work our way out of a mess. But then, maybe it was better to let Mother think we had been constructive. So I drifted off to sleep, and all that night I climbed little hills, big hills, and mountains of popcorn.

  What can you do on a rainy afternoon? It had been raining for days, and we had used up all of our ideas. We were tired of rain. Gosh! It would come during spring vacation, too. Mother and Dad were off buying spring clothes. They just always had to get new outfits for themselves and everybody else when spring vacation rolled around. It’s a wonder they didn’t buy a suit for the Easter bunny.

  Peter was standing with his nose pressed against the window waiting for the rain to stop. But it didn’t. Janey was dressing her Coo doll for the umpteenth time, and I was fiddling with the propeller on a new model plane. Mr. Pudgins was playing a game of solitaire. He looked mighty bored. We all were.

  “Let’s have a tea party. Can’t we, Mr. Pudgins?” Janey stood in front of him with a smile on her face. The two missing teeth made her grin look like a pumpkin’s.

  “Capital idea, my dear. Capital. Give me a hand to get out of this deep chair.” Mr. Pudgins was so roly-poly that Janey had to tug to get him out. “What will it be, children?”

  “I want some Whizzle,” said Pete.

  “Whizzle?” said Mr. Pudgins.

  “Oh yes, some Whizzle,” said Janey.

  “What in the world is Whizzle, Johnny?” Mr. Pudgins turned toward me. He took his pipe out of his pocket, and I felt goose pimples all over.

  “Well, Johnny?” asked Mr. Pudgins.

  “Gosh, don’t ask me. It must be something they made up.”

  “Does anybody know what goes into it?” asked Mr. Pudgins, striking a match to light his pipe.

  “Ginger ale, ’cause that makes it whiz,” said Pete.

  “You mean fizz, Pete,” I said. “There’s no such drink.”

  “It seems to me my grandfather told me of a very interesting drink called Whizzle. Just the thing for an afternoon like this,” said Mr. Pudgins. “You youngsters go and wash your hands. And I’ll get to work in the kitchen.”

  When he brought in the pitcher, it was filled to the top with a dark-red mixture that bubbled like a fountain. We each took a sip of the Whizzle.

  “That’s good,” said Pete.

  “Mmmmmm, Whizzle,” said Janey.

  “Not bad, not bad,” said I.

  It really did taste good. There was cherry juice, orange juice, ginger ale, and then a flavor I couldn’t figure out, all mixed up together. Each of us drank a tall glassful. Then we drank another. Even Mr. Pudgins was enjoying his concoction.

  Just as we emptied our glasses, Peter had a terrific burp. It almost knocked him off his chair. “Burrrrppppee—wow!” And when he said that wow, out of his mouth flew a bird. Not a very big bird, to be sure, but a bird just the same. It was reddish in color and quick in its movements.

  “For goodness sakes,” said Janey.

  Then she burped. It was catching, I guess. Ooops, a bird flew out of her mouth, but orange in color.

  “Mine’s prettier,” said Janey with pride as the bird flew up and sat on Mother’s new lamp.

  I felt a burp coming, a big burp. I tried to hold it in and then, “Whoooeeka-burp!” There was a green bird sitting on my finger. He looked surprised, and so was I. All three of us looked at Mr. Pudgins then. He was laughing, and then it came. The biggest burp of all. “Blooooey-burp!” And a big, red, green, and blue bird flew out.

  The four birds started to fly ’round and ’round, singing as they went. But we were in trouble. That first burp started us hiccupping, and once we had started, we couldn’t seem to stop. With each hiccup another bird flew out. There were birds here, birds there, big and little birds everywhere.

  “Hold your nose. Hup, hup, hic!” said Mr. Pudgins and hiccupped two more birds.

  “Stand on your right foot.” Petey got mixed up and stood on his left.

  “Shut your eyes. Hup, hic-hup.” Three birds flew out.

  “Now jump on your right foot and hold your breath.” All four of us jumped. Janey turned white, Petey turned purple, but Mr. Pudgins turned red.

  “Whooof!” I gasped, and so did the others when we gulped air again. Yes, the hiccups had stopped.

  “Hic!” We all turned and looked. Petey was very unhappy. He hadn’t stopped hiccupping. Another bird flew into the room. And those birds here, birds there, big and little birds everywhere were getting in our hair, Mother’s draperies, the cookie jar, the bathtub. It was terrible. Mr. Pudgins grabbed Petey by the feet and swung him upside down. But with each swing he hiccupped some more. Janey ran and got a fierce skeleton mask we’d had for Halloween and pounced on Petey trying to scare the hiccups away. But Pete just kept on hiccupping.

  “We’ve got to stop him,” I moaned.

  “Now let me see,” said Mr. Pudgins. “He doesn’t scare and he doesn’t bounce . . .”

  “Let’s put him outside,” said Janey. “I’m getting tired of birds.”

  “But it’s raining,” wailed Petey, and he started to kick and yell. That did it. Suddenly we realized he had stopped hiccupping.

  “That solved that,” said Mr. Pudgins. “But what are we to do with these birds?” What a problem!

  “Let’s keep them,” said Petey. He always had an easy solution.

  “I want to catch them,” said Janey.

  “Say,” I said, “Mother will be mad if she finds all these birds flying around. Come on, we’d better get them outdoors.”

  “Johnny is right,” said Mr. Pudgins. “Now let me see: Johnny, you get the vacuum sweeper and put on the attachment that sucks up air. That shouldn’t hurt the littler ones. Janey, you get the old bird cage in the basement and catch them in that. And Petey and I will take big pans with covers and catch them in those. All set? Let’s go.”

  It was lucky no one walked in on us during the next half-hour, for there was I pulling the vacuum sweeper after me and sticking the hose in the draperies, on the lamps, over the doors, under the ventilators and sucking in dozens and dozens of birds. Janey was hopping up and down on the chairs, the sink, the shelves, the shower, and catching dozens and dozens of birds in her cage. And Mr. Pudgins and Petey were making an awful racket slamming the covers on their pans after they’d caught another bird. We raced here and there and everywhere. At last the big birds, little birds, red birds, green birds were all caught and thrown outside. We all sat down in chairs and panted. Then we looked at the room. It was a mess. Lampshade knocked sideways, draperies pulled every which way, d
irt on chairs, windows smeared, the carpet littered.

  “H’um,” said Mr. Pudgins, “I know what we’ll do next.”

  “So do I,” said Janey weakly. And so did we all. We had to clean up the house.

  Peter straightened all the things that had been knocked awry, Janey dusted, Mr. Pudgins washed windows, and I vacuumed. Boy, we were tired when that was done! We were just putting away the last rag and the vacuum sweeper when we heard Mother’s key in the lock.

  “Gosh!” I muttered. “We just made it.”

  “What a lovely surprise,” said Mother as she walked in the door. “What a lovely clean house.” She turned to Mr. Pudgins. “How in the world do you do it?” she asked. Mr. Pudgins just smiled, rather weakly, I think.

  “Hey,” said Dad, coming through the door with a load of packages, “where did that pretty green canary come from?”

  We all gasped. Sure enough, there was one of the birds. We must have missed him. “Get the cage and catch him, Petey,” said Mother.

  “Oh no, Mommy,” wailed Petey. “I’m tired of catching them. You catch it. Please, Mommy.” So she did.

  “What shall we call our new bird?” asked Mother as she hung the cage in a sunny window.

  “I know,” said Janey. “Whizzle.” And we did. But never again on a rainy afternoon did we ask for a party with Whizzle. Once was enough.

  Mother was a Mary. Grandma was a Mary. A great aunt and three cousins were Marys. Every May they had a gathering of the Marys, and Mother explained to Dad that it was just a must. She had to go. This was the afternoon that she was off being Mary, as Dad jokingly called it, so Mr. Pudgins was with us.

  It was a swell day.

  I was almost ready to go to Clem’s to practice shooting balls at his basket. It was just the kind of spring day for basketball. And then Petey started his fuss. “Where’s my hammer?” he yelled. And I remembered I had used it last.

  Mr. Pudgins was sitting reading the newspaper, and smoke billowed over its edges. “Do you know where the hammer is, Johnny?” he asked.