by J. P. Martin
Mr Goatsby drove up in a gigantic motor. The statue was wrapped in packing cloth, and firmly fixed on a roof luggage carrier.
Goatsby was a singular-looking man. He had great projecting ears, and such small eyes, hidden behind such thick glasses, that you could hardly see them. After a little refreshment, he began to argue with Uncle as to the place where the statue was to be put.
“It would be best in front of the fireplace,” Goatsby said, snappishly.
“I’m not so sure,” objected Uncle. “It would be awkward to sit round the fire with a statue in our midst.
“I don’t see why!”
But Uncle refused to budge.
Goatsby sulked for a minute or two, then had a fresh idea. He walked over to the main picture in the hall at Homeward, the magnificent oil painting of Uncle opening the dwarfs’ drinking fountains.
“That’s the place,” he said, “right under that old picture.”
Uncle very rightly objected to this.
“It would destroy the effect of the picture,” he said firmly.
At last they placed it in an alcove, where it was fairly noticeable, though Goatsby was not too pleased. Uncle had to tell him that his million-pound gift, though useful, was by no means indispensable. So in the end Goatsby gave in and drove off saying he would return in a few days with the money in the shape of gold ingots.
It was funny that the moment he was left alone with it Uncle felt that the statue of Goatsby began to get on his nerves. It was so very plain-looking. Even the Old Monkey confessed that he wanted to knock off the hateful projecting marble ears.
Uncle was even beginning to consider sending the statue back and doing without the million pounds, but Whitebeard begged him not to.
“Well,” said Uncle, “I’d like to get away from it for a bit, anyhow. I think I’ll come and stay with you for a day or so, Whitebeard.”
Whitebeard turned very pale.
It is true that he had often invited Uncle to come and stay with him, but he had never dreamed that he might actually come. Whitebeard is such a miser that the very thought of providing a meal for himself makes him shudder, and the thought of providing for Uncle put him into a high fever.
Still he could hardly get out of it. He had been staying with Uncle, off and on, for nearly a year. So he gave a ghastly smile, and said it would be a pleasure, but that, being a poor man, he was afraid that his house would be badly stocked.
“That’s a pity,” replied Uncle, “for I was thinking of bringing Cloutman, Gubbins, Cowgill and the Old Monkey. Still, I dare say we shall manage, for I remember some months ago giving you three barrels of tinned food. You thanked me warmly, and sent them to your house to be used in case of siege, or if visitors came. Those were your very words. These will be ample for the first day, and by that time you will have had time to look round and order in further supplies.”
Every word he spoke was like a poisoned dagger turning in Whitebeard’s heart.
“We’ll go immediately after breakfast,” said Uncle.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait till after lunch – or even till after dinner?” begged Whitebeard.
“No,” said Uncle, “we’ll start in good time, and then you’ll have all the morning to prepare a substantial lunch.”
Next morning Whitebeard swallowed twice his usual breakfast as a tonic, and also so as to need less of his own food at lunch-time.
Uncle had, however, got among his morning mail a pamphlet on ‘The No-Breakfast Slimming Theory’, and decided to try it at once.
“I’ll go without breakfast this morning,” he said to the Old Monkey, “except for a bucket of cocoa. If I feel a bit faint, I’ll make up for it at lunch.”
Whitebeard looked up with a sickly smile.
“Old Gleamhound says that going without breakfast is very good for most people, but very bad for elephants,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’m only going to try it for one day,” said Uncle, reassuringly. “Tomorrow when I’m staying with you I’ll have breakfast as usual.”
At last they started. Several of them were going on the traction engine which was pulling a tender as well. All the people that Uncle had mentioned went, as well as the Old Monkey’s father and the Muncle, though the Muncle didn’t travel on the traction engine. He had put on a pair of special electric boots; he switched on the motor and they carried him along. The Muncle is always thinking about boots and shoes, and he has lots of pairs, big travelling ones that run on wheels, some smart lemon-coloured ones, and some that are so highly polished that they look like steel.
Cloutman and Gubbins were rather late and had to start without any breakfast. However, as they told Whitebeard, it would be easy to make up at lunch.
They had quite a safe journey. Badfort was quiet, except that a great fat cat, almost the size of a tiger, was hurled violently out of a window into the moat as the traction engine chugged past.
At last they reached Whitebeard’s farm. It’s hard to see it at first, for it is surrounded by a very high hedge of sharp thorns. Whitebeard dismounted, and unlocked the gate. The moment they were inside and the gate was shut again, he had to climb speedily back on to the engine, for down the drive came a small herd of lean muscular pigs with sharp tusks, and they made straight for him. The fact is that Whitebeard doesn’t feed his pigs, and the result is that they have grown lean and wild and are very fast runners. Also they have developed the habit of fighting in packs like peccaries, and are very dangerous.
“It’s asking for trouble keeping them so short,” said Uncle. “One day they’re going to hurt you, Whitebeard.”
“Well,” replied Whitebeard, “if there’s anything left over from lunch, I may give it them!”
This was not likely to happen, for Whitebeard gathers up fragments of meals in a bag which he hides under his beard and saves them for himself. He eats them in the middle of the night with tremendous relish.
When they got in, they all sat down in a perfectly neat room with a door at the end of it labelled ‘Larder’.
Whitebeard told them to be seated. They looked a massive and hungry company sitting there, as Whitebeard went with trembling hands to the larder, unlocked the door, and then gave a shout of surprise.
“Oh, I say,” he said, “there’s hardly a thing in the cupboard! Someone must have been stealing my supplies!”
Uncle knew perfectly well that this was a lie. It might be all that Whitebeard had in that cupboard, but it was not all his store.
“Scatter, boys,” said Uncle, “and search the house for hidden supplies!”
All Uncle’s followers are good at finding secret passages and hiding-places, and it was not long before Cloutman gave a joyous cry: “Come here, sir. Just look at that!” A whole wall of the room had moved on rollers, and inside was a really well-fitted grocer’s shop, with a counter, scales, a till, shopping baskets and string. On the shelves was one of the best displays of provisions that Uncle had ever seen.
As a matter of fact Whitebeard is so miserly that he can’t even bring in food from his own store without pretending to strike a bargain with himself. He pretends there is a shopman there, and offers eightpence for a ninepenny tin of salmon. He then pays the money into the till and feels he has struck a good bargain.
Uncle looked grave. “Whitebeard, you have lied to me. I’m sorry to say it of a personal friend, and I would take a stronger action, if I did not remember how well you served me in a supreme hour of peril by wheeling up that truckload of stone clubs. You will now serve us with your costliest and choicest provisions, and those in unlimited quantities!”
Whitebeard was horror-struck.
“Oh no, sir!” he gasped. “Not choicest! Not most costly!” Then, in a kind of shriek: “Not UNLIMITED QUANTITIES!!”
However Uncle thought Whitebeard needed a lesson, so they all sat down to a mighty feast.
“That’s my ninth tin of preserved ginger,” said Cloutman to Gubbins, “and really, I think it tastes better th
an the first!”
The room they were sitting in looked out on the garden where there was a statue of Whitebeard.
“Strange,” said Uncle, “I don’t remember seeing that statue before, Whitebeard.”
“I’ve never seen it myself,” said Whitebeard. At that moment the pack of lean angry pigs came round the corner and made a rush at the statue which they thought was Whitebeard himself. As the pigs rushed up, the figure was quickly drawn back on a plank into a recess in the wall. Two of the pigs rushed after it, and the flap was then quickly closed.
“I come here,” said Uncle, rather crossly, “to get away from one statue, and here is another. I seem haunted by statues!”
The Old Monkey ran upstairs to look out of a window, and came back with the explanation of the mystery.
“Beaver Hateman and a sort of shadowy chap are loading those two pigs into a cart pulled by the Wooden-Legged Donkey,” he said.
“Well,” said Uncle, striking his trunk on the table with a resounding blow, “that’s clever! I can see that the ghost Hootman is behind this. It’s far too smart for Beaver Hateman. There’ll be roast pork in Badfort tonight!”
As he spoke, they heard a loud shriek, and an old man came sprinting round the house pursued by the rest of the wild pigs.
“That’s your father, Whitebeard,” said Uncle.
“Oh dear,” said Whitebeard, “I didn’t know he was coming.”
Whitebeard’s father is a detestable man. His son appears almost lovable by his side. He dresses in would-be fashionable clothes, and has a laugh which makes every living creature shrink away. But at the moment he was not laughing at all; he was screaming, and I may say that his scream is far better than his laugh.
As he came round for the second time, he saw Whitebeard in the window. “Alonzo!” he called in a piercing voice. “My son! My son!”
But a great black boar was snapping at his heels, so he tore off again.
As he came round for the fourth time, he was slowing down. “This can only end one way,” said Uncle, gravely.
But he was wrong, for Whitebeard’s father suddenly stopped, drew himself to his full height, and gave vent to a laugh so sickening that every pig paused. Then he laughed again. So abominable was his merriment that the swine seemed to lose strength.
With an odious chuckle he stooped forward and said:
“The pigs, the dear little pigs, how I love the DEAR LITTLE PIGS!!”
And he tried to put his hand on the head of a pink sow that had been foremost in the chase, but he laughed again so foully that the pigs began to shrink away into the bushes. Also a number of plants and shrubs near by began to droop and wilt.
Laughing hideously, Whitebeard’s father then walked towards the house.
Whitebeard turned to Uncle, looking worried.
“This has been a day of great strain to me, sir,” he said, “and if my father is allowed to come in I feel that I shall be seriously ill!”
Others felt the same, and Uncle took up a seven-pound tin of corned beef and threw it haughtily at the detestable man’s feet.
“Now, be off!” he said.
And to everybody’s surprise and relief Whitebeard’s father went.
THREE
Uncle’s Treasury
WHEN UNCLE CAME back from Whitebeard’s, he settled down to his usual breakfast routine.
The Old Monkey came cheerfully in with two buckets of cocoa and a great basket of breadfruit and bananas. But Uncle, instead of reading the paper, was looking gloomily at the statue of Goatsby.
“I don’t like the way its ears stick out,” he said.
“No, sir, nor do I,” agreed the Old Monkey. “And it’s got such a sneering expression. I don’t feel at home with it in the room.”
“I suppose I’ll have to get used to it,” said Uncle, turning his back on the statue. “The gold ingots will be coming this afternoon.”
“Where will you be putting them, sir?”
“In my treasury. We’ll all go together to deposit it.”
“Oh good, I’ve never been to the treasury,” said the Old Monkey, in high spirits once again.
Uncle collected a strong company together to move the gold ingots. He sent for Cloutman and Gubbins and Captain Walrus, while Noddy Ninety was also told to come, for he’s a shrewd old chap, and good at watching against treachery. Ninety, although very old, likes to dress up as a schoolboy and go to Dr Lyre’s school in Lion Tower. He knows the work so well by now that he starts in the bottom form on Monday and is in the top form by Friday afternoon. He is also very good at cricket. He works on the trains of Homeward during the holidays.
The gold ingots arrived in ten large wagons. The gold was in the form of polished bricks and bars, and looked very handsome shining in the sun.
Uncle had told Cowgill to be prepared for the transport of heavy materials, and he was ready with a number of motor-lorries.
Uncle’s henchmen made an imposing sight drawn up in the hall, and Goatsby seemed very much impressed by the massive figures of Cloutman and Gubbins and the venerable, but tough form of Noddy Ninety.
“Didn’t know you had all these chaps working for you!” he said. “Well, it will take the whole lot of them to shift this stuff. Do you know that it takes two strong men all their time to lift one of the smallest of these ingots?”
Uncle motioned to Gubbins, and Gubbins, without the slightest effort, picked up two of the largest ingots and flung them into a truck.
Goatsby was amazed. “This is a valuable helper of yours!” he said, in rather a jealous voice.
“Oh, the others are just as good in their way,” replied Uncle. “Cloutman, for instance, can strike down a lion with one blow!”
“Let’s get the stuff in,” said Goatsby, irritably. “I suppose you have a suitable place to put it?”
“Yes,” replied Uncle, in a grave, dignified voice, “my treasury.”
He took from his pocket a small key, and went into a room adjoining the hall. Then everybody heard a loud, piercing noise rather like a buzz-saw and Uncle motioned them to approach. What they saw surprised them.
The whole floor of the room had risen up to the ceiling. Where the floor had been, a long smooth passage of brilliantly lighted steel sloped gently downwards.
“Drive the lorries in carefully,” said Uncle, “and then everybody can sit on them and we’ll start. Are you all here?”
They were all there except Alonzo S. Whitebeard, who was discovered in a fainting condition. The sight of so much gold had made him positively ill. However, Uncle happened to have in his pocket a packet of Gleamhound’s Faintness Producer for Burglars. On it were the words: ‘Guaranteed to protect the timid housewife. Simply place a couple on your adversary’s tongue, and he falls into a deep coma.’ As Gleamhound’s remedies work backwards he slipped two into Whitebeard’s mouth and he revived, and stretched himself admiringly by the side of a large ingot.
The lorries glided down the sloping passage and after a long journey drew up at a huge barrier of massive steel.
Uncle’s treasury is guarded by a very good sentry called Oldeboy. As the lorries stopped they saw him looking out from his sentry-box which had a flame-thrower fixed on the top of it. Oldeboy is only about sixteen, but he is always pretending to be old. He admires Noddy Ninety so much that he copies him in every way possible, even wearing an artificial beard and large spectacles. He is very sharp-witted and makes a first-rate sentry.
“Stand, every one of you, and then come up to the light!” he said and switched on a powerful electric lamp.
“Have I got to do this?” asked Goatsby crossly.
“Let’s have a look at you, one by one, or I’ll turn the flame-thrower on you!” was Oldeboy’s answer to that.
When he had examined them he turned to Uncle.
“Right, you can unlock the gate, sir. I have to be careful, you know. Only last week a fellow arrived disguised as Whitebeard. He was all beard and whiskers. I wasn’t satisfied so gav
e him a taste of the flame-thrower. That scorched his whiskers off, and who do you think it was?”
“I know – Beaver Hateman,” said Uncle. “That man’s foul trail is everywhere!”
“He went off down the passage like a firework, sir.”
“You’ve done finely, Oldeboy, finely!” said Uncle.
“Need I go to Dr Lyre’s school any more, sir?” asked Oldeboy. “It makes me feel too young.”
“You stay while you can! It’s a fine school!” shouted Ninety.
“You can guard my treasury for the time being, but your studies must continue,” said Uncle. “In the meantime here is a little present I have been keeping for you.”
He handed Oldeboy a bottle labelled ‘Gleamhound’s Youth and Beauty Foam. Turns a withered, wrinkled hag into a peach-complexioned sylph in a few minutes. Simply rub in.’
“Oh, sir,” said Oldeboy, “I want to look very old!”
“Listen to him,” said Ninety in disgust. “What I’d give to look as well as he does in a school cap!”
“Don’t you know that Gleamhound’s medicines work backwards? You’ll find this effective. Try it.”
Oldeboy rubbed in the lotion and in a moment had the wrinkled face of an old man; his very eyes looked dim and his face seemed to fall in.
“And,” said Uncle, “in case your mother doesn’t like your looks, here is a little tin of Gleamhound’s Old Man Ointment.”
“I thought we were coming to a treasury, not a beauty parlour,” said Goatsby.
Uncle felt annoyed at this, but he said nothing, only giving the signal for the lorries to move on. At last they reached the treasury, passing through nine steel doors – each of which had to be unlocked – to get there.
Uncle’s treasury resembles a vast cave lined with steel. Valuables are piled everywhere in majestic confusion. The vast room is about half full, but Uncle directed the lorries to be pushed into an open space in front of a mighty pile of gold. Then he directed Cloutman to unload the gold bars.
As a matter of fact Goatsby’s million pounds’ worth of gold didn’t seem to make much difference. “You have to look twice to see if it’s there, don’t you?” said Uncle.