Old Bart put down his anchor, grabbed two bars, and gave a mighty heave, then a disappointed groan.
“Sorry, Cap’n.”
“Maybe someone could wiggle out,” suggested Lawrence.
“Nay, none of us are that skinny.”
“I am, sir,” said Horton. They all looked at him. Yes, malnourished as he was from eating gruel, he might just make it.
“You won’t leave us, will you, old boy? You will open the door for us,” the captain said, as if they were old shipmates who’d been round the Horn and back again. “We’ve got important work tonight, catching a traitor.”
“Yes, sir,” said Horton, and holding his breath he slowly wiggled and squirmed through the small gap. It took about five minutes and it hurt.
When at last he slipped through, he unbarred the door and the pirates swarmed out.
The captain shook his hand.
“Good work, lad. I’ll be sure that you get credit when we capture the traitor.”
“Who is the traitor?” asked Horton, feeling pretty good about himself.
“We don’t know,” admitted the captain. “All we know is that she’ll be at the Luggertucks’ costume ball tonight—dressed as Little Bo-peep.”
“Oh no!” cried Horton, feeling pretty bad about himself.
“Let’s go, boys, we’re late,” cried the captain, running out the door with his crew behind him.
At that moment, the constable, who had obviously been napping, came running down the hall, but Old Bart conked him on the head with the rusty steel bar.
“Wait!” called Horton. “Not Little Bo-peep. She’s not a traitor! She’s—”
Old Bart turned around. “We almost forgot,” he said with a grin. He picked Horton up with one hand and threw him back into the cell and rebarred the door. “Be good, boy.”
Horton hollered after them, but nary a pirate listened.
Minutes later, after Horton had again squirmed through the bars, the pirates were long gone.
He ran outside, where a farmer was shouting that smelly ruffians had stolen his horse and wagon.
Now Horton understood Luther’s plan, or at least the major points of it, and he understood that it would have failed if he hadn’t helped the pirates get out of jail.
In Which M’Lady Luggertuck Stinks . . .
Much has been said, Reader, about the odors of our hardworking stable boys, of our fish-reeking pirates, of our sardine-eating detective, and even of our mire-slogging hero.
But what of M’Lady Luggertuck’s odor?
As odors go, it was an expensive one, bottled in Paris. (Or at least the perfume clerks assured her the bottles were from Paris.)
As she prepared to be the grand hostess of her grand ball, M’Lady Luggertuck had carefully contemplated how she might dress most grandly.
Two great burdens weighed on her mind.
Burden the First: Her finest Fashionable Wig was still missing. (Luther had chucked it in a ditch on his way back from his secret meeting.)
Burden the Second: Her corset was still Loosened. This meant she would appear perhaps a tad heavy, but she just wasn’t prepared to tighten it again. Not yet, at least.
Unlike her son, M’Lady Luggertuck still had a seed of decency a’dwelling deep inside. Since Loosening the corset, she had felt the seed stir, ready to shoot out roots of common goodness and petals of human charity.
Perhaps there remained hope for the lady yet. Perhaps she might become a cheerful, forgiving, and helpful person, content with her lot in life. She decided to leave her corset untightened lest tightening it should smother the seedling.
How, then, could she rise above these fashion challenges? With more perfume, of course!
After several days of consideration, she chose “Eau d’Peccary” over “Congealed Ambrosia.” Partially because “Eau d’Peccary” gave off a foresty air that she felt would enhance her costume. (She planned to dress as a wood nymph.) And partially because Old Crotty found two big jugs of “Eau d’Peccary” in a closet.
Shortly before the ball was to begin, Old Crotty, who blessedly had lost her sense of smell from repeated exposure to M’Lady’s perfumes, began to slather M’Lady Luggertuck with the syrupy scent.
The thick stone walls of Smugwick Manor once, long ago, held up against an assault by Belgian Crusaders, but they were no match for “Eau d’Peccary,” which stormed the old castle like a berserker. No one, except Old Crotty, was safe.
Stable boys shoveling manure wrinkled their noses. Loafburton, tasting the Royal Rum Plum Rumpus he had baked for the ball, made a gagging noise and threw out the whole batch. Colonel Sitwell, napping in a hammock some fifty yards from the manor, awoke screaming, “Rally, men! The natives are attacking!”
Yes, men, do rally! For M’Lady Luggertuck is ready for a party.
In Which Luther Sees His Plan Go Perfectly . . .
M’Lady Luggertuck entered the ballroom to be greeted by a surging tide of fawning compliments from the Invited Guests.
Her costume was so very lovely. Her wig so very fashionable. And the ballroom so very shiny and glittery.
Of course, the Invited Guests should have complimented the servants who had shined it and glittered it. But they did not do that; nor did they even speak to the servants, except to say “more this,” “more that,” and “go away.”
The Invited Guests thought everything so very perfect, except for the horrendous stench of M’Lady Luggertuck’s perfume, “Eau d’Peccary.” (If only she had looked “peccary” up in the dictionary!)
About midway through the ball, the smell actually became worse—an Unprecedented Marvel—when her perfume began to mingle with a strange smell of old fish in the air. Most Invited Guests attributed this to Colonel Sitwell.
Otherwise, what a lovely affair, Reader! So many wealthy people wearing costumes ordered from the finest costumiers in London. Lady Aiken was dressed as a wolf. Lord Alexander was dressed as Puss in Boots. The Empress of Blandings was dressed as a well-groomed pig.
The Shortleys, dressed as Robin Hood and Maid Marian, brought Celia Sylvan-Smythe, dressed, as promised, as Little Bo-peep.
The local elite were there: the Frimperton family (gnomes), Reverend Apoplexy (King Lear) and his daughters (King Lear’s daughters), and the esteemed Dr. Radish and his wife (St. George and, fittingly, a dragon.)
Colonel Sitwell and Montgomery were dressed as Colonel Sitwell and Montgomery.
And, of course, the two dozen suitors were all dressed as Romeo, even the seventy-three-year-old one. They pressed close to our Miss Sylvan-Smythe. They begged for dances, but she declined, at first politely and finally quite brashly. Still, they fawned over her and brought her more punch than she could possibly drink.
Luther Luggertuck did not bother. Why jostle with the crowd when he, alone, had planned ahead? He’d have plenty of time to talk to Celia after the kidnapping.
Always egregious at parties, Luther behaved abominably again this time, but in a quieter way than usual. He was, after all, in disguise, wearing the Oriental robes and the creepy grinning mask.
He hung around the smorgasbord all evening, stuffing Sweet Sugarapple Pie into his gaping maw. What a relief that the mask hid his bad habit of chewing with his mouth open!
Eventually he sauntered over to a group of guests dressed as pirates. These pirates wore amazingly good costumes. Scars, tattoos, wooden legs, fleas—very authentic-looking!
Had anyone—say, three stable boys and a massive detective hiding under a table—eavesdropped, this is what they would have heard:
“I’m Monsieur Smedlap,” Luther said to the captain.
“Aye,” replied Captain Splinterlock, “and I’m an innocent guest dressed as Captain Obediah Splinterlock, terror of the Tortugas and handsomest man on the high seas!”
Luther rolled his eyes. Luckily for him the mask hid this, or Captain Splinterlock would have flogged him.
“It’s a quarter of ten now,” he told the captain. “At ten o’
clock the big grandfather clock will begin striking. That will be your signal. Grab Little Bo-peep and go out the French doors into the garden.”
“I don’t see no French doors,” said Old Bart.
“Right there,” said Luther impatiently, pointing at the doors.
“They don’t look very French to me,” said Lawrence, the patch-eyed pirate.
“Never mind,” snapped Luther. “Go out the not-very-French doors into the garden. Follow the path through the woods and meet me by the edge of the mire.”
“And you’ll be getting us our Lump?” demanded the captain.
“Yes, yes, as soon as I see you get the girl, I’ll run and get it from its hiding place.”
“You’d better bring it or, by the drowned timbers of our old ship, I’ll make you walk the plank.”
“But Cap’n, we don’t have a—”
“Hush!” roared the captain. Several guests looked over.
“You’re attracting too much attention,” hissed Luther. “Disperse!”
“Gladly,” said Old Bart, and charted a course for the ale. Lawrence headed for a buffet of fine cheeses.
Meanwhile, the captain actually asked M’Lady Luggertuck for a dance.
“Such a dancer! Such a man!” thought M’Lady Luggertuck. “If only Sir Luggertuck could move this way.” Had she known such a handsome man would be at the ball, she might have tightened her corset.
Luther felt he should be as far from Miss Sylvan-Smythe as possible, in case something went wrong. He stood near the musicians and jokingly waved his hands as if he were a conductor. The musicians glowered.
Ten o’clock neared. Luther’s chest a’tightened with a moment of worry. He didn’t see Miss Sylvan-Smythe anywhere. Where had she gotten to?
The clock began to strike ten!
The ballroom was crowded. He looked around. No Little Bo-peep. His stomach a’bubbled with angry acid.
Then, relief. There, across the giant room, near the cheeses, he saw her elaborately frilled bonnet. Suddenly pirates surrounded her. They put a sack over her head and, moving as a large clump, headed for the (French) doorway.
Montgomery remarked that the guests dressed as pirates were ill-mannered, but certainly had jolly good costumes. A moment later the pirates were through the doors and into the garden.
I refuse to describe the smile on Luther’s face as he congratulated himself on a perfect plan.
“And now to fetch the Lump and have a little chat with Miss Sylvan-Smythe. We should be announcing our engagement by midnight,” he murmured.
In Which We Learn What Luther Did Not See . . .
Reader, do not panic. Do not throw the book down in anger. Do not wonder how Horton could have failed, because, of course, he did not.
What Luther saw was not all there was to see. If we are to see it, we must turn back the clock a little. We must revisit the recent past, just a half hour before the kidnapping.
What was happening then? Horton was stumbling over rocks and roots on the shortcut from town in a Headlong Rush to get to Smugwick Manor.
Finally he emerged from Wolfleg Woods to see the castle aglow with lights. But it looked not beautiful, not to him.
Nearly exhausted, he ran onward to the stable. The various garden and stable boys cheered when they saw him.
“You escaped, eh?”
“Hurrah, Horton! Well done.”
“Did you come back for the Lump? Where’d you hide it?”
“No time, no time,” gasped Horton, huffing and puffing after his long run. “Where’s Bump? Where’s Blight and Blemish?”
“Haven’t seen them in hours.”
“Please, you have to help me; I have to get into the ball. I need a costume.”
Tarpitch, the oldest stable boy, opened the tackroom door. “Why not take one of Luther’s riding suits and a helmet?”
“Perfect,” Horton said. Then, inspiration struck. “In fact, I’ll take two of each.”
Donning one coat and one helmet, he tucked the others inside the coat and headed for the servants’ entrance. Before he got there he saw, standing on a terrace with her back to the great ballroom, a beautiful shepherdess: Little Bo-peep.
He dove into the bushes at the foot of the terrace.
“Miss Sylvan-Smythe! Miss Sylvan-Smythe!” he whispered loudly.
She looked over the edge of the terrace and lit up with joy, a real smile on her face for the first time that night.
“Mr. Halfpott, is that you? You came after all!”
“Are you alone?”
“For the moment, thank goodness. I snuck out. There are so many . . . er, suitors, in there.”
Looking up, he saw again how beautiful she was, despite the frills and ribbons of the silly costume.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, not against his better judgment or mine either. “But you have to change costumes. There are worse men than suitors at the ball. Luther Luggertuck has hired pirates to kidnap you.”
Some girls might have screamed. Others would have laughed and called him silly. Celia nodded.
“I’m not one bit surprised. He is a vile young man,” she said. “But what good will it do to change costumes?”
“The pirates are looking for Little Bo-peep. As long as you’re wearing that costume you’re in danger. I’ve brought you another.”
“Good, I’ve gotten tired of being Little Bo-peep anyway. Too frilly,” said Celia. Then she laughed. “But I can’t change here, in front of you.”
Horton blushed.
It was decided that she would change behind a bush, with Horton standing guard—and looking the other way, I hardly need mention.
The Little Bo-peep costume was not easy to squirm out of, especially when one was hiding in a bush, but, as has been hinted at previously, Celia Sylvan-Smythe did not balk easily. As she struggled out of the dress with its many bows and buttons, Horton explained all he knew about Luther and the Shipless Pirates.
“Well, Mr. Halfpott, it seems you have saved my life,” she said. “For, I would have died before marrying the pasty cad Luther Luggertuck or, for that matter, any of the idiots in there who tromped all the way down here to try to woo me and my father’s money.”
She stepped out of the bushes and, though I will not dwell on it, Horton felt a gooshing and gushing inside, for—in the light spilling from the ballroom windows—he could see she was directing another wonderful smile at him.
“I have just one concern, though,” she said. “When the pirates don’t see Little Bo-peep at the ball, they won’t give up. Sooner or later they’ll find me.”
“Oh, no,” said Horton, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“What we need is a substitute Little Bo-peep,” she said.
“Great idea,” said Horton, quite impressed. “That would really confuse them.”
“Of course,” she continued, “the substitute must be someone who can hold his own against pirates. But I don’t guess we’ll find any brawny footmen who could fit into the dress.”
“Actually,” said Horton, “I know the perfect person. Twice as tough as any footman and twice as mean as any pirate.”
“Will he help us?”
“No,” said Horton. “We’ll have to trick her. She’s crafty, but I think I know her weak spot.”
In Which Miss Neversly’s Vanity Is Appealed To . . .
Miss Neversly was, at that moment, in her glory.
Bossing and beating not only her regular kitchen boys, but the footmen and maids whom she’d drafted to help serve the countless platters of food for the guests.
When Celia tapped her on the shoulder, she whipped around, spoon at the ready.
“What is it? Who are you? Why aren’t you helping, you young fool?”
“If you please, Miss Neversly,” said Celia, “I’ve been sent from upstairs.”
“Have they run out of cheeses? By the devil’s spatula, I told you cheese boys to move faster! Faster, you drip-nosed pukers!”
“No, ma�
�am,” interrupted Celia, though she started to doubt that the trick would work. “It’s M’Lady Luggertuck. She wants you to come up!”
Miss Neversly froze.
Celia continued. “M’Lady wants you to come to the ball and take a bow. All the guests want to applaud the cook, she told me.”
Miss Neversly almost fell into a pile of boysenberry custards. Down deep, under the hate and the bile and the meanness, Miss Neversly had always carried a tiny wound. Never in all her years at Smugwick Manor had she ever been thanked by M’Lady Luggertuck. Not for the Cornish hens or the standing rib roasts or the garlic gherkins. Not even for the Luggertuck Breakfast Fruitbraids.
Now, at last, she would get her due. She would be thanked in front of everyone. The spoon dropped from her hand. She began to fuss with her hair.
Celia slipped in the crucial point.
“Ma’am, M’Lady Luggertuck asked that you put a costume on, since everyone else of high importance is wearing a costume.”
Celia held up the Little Bo-peep costume. Even now she feared Neversly would refuse.
“It’s to distinguish you from the regular servants,” Celia added.
As Horton had predicted, Neversly’s vanity was stronger than her sense. She grabbed the costume from Celia and began stuffing herself inside. ’Twas a tight fit, but with Celia’s help she got it on.
The kitchen staff gaped in dazed disbelief. There stood their boss, their tyrant, their nightmare—dressed in fluffy white skirts and baby-blue bows underneath a puffy cloud of a bonnet. Worst of all, she was smiling. Yes, smiling!
No kitchen boy alive had ever seen that sight before and, later that night in their attic cots, they prayed they never would again. Between her always-chapped lips was a set of teeth that were not the teeth of a human. What they were I cannot say, but when bared in a smile they made one think of the rats that live in deepest basement storerooms under Smugwick.
With a triumphant wave, Miss Neversly floated out the door and up the stairs toward the ballroom, where the gang of Shipless Pirates was waiting for Little Bopeep.
She was hardly in the ballroom for a second when they got her.
Horton Halfpott Page 9