by J. P. Martin
“Here’s sixpence,” said Uncle, “and hurry.”
Goodman ran so fast that you could hardly see him at all. He went once more to Mrs Smallweed’s. She’s a good friend of the cat and they often have a gossip together.
“I want a pound of best scob’s liver,” said Goodman, putting the sixpence on the counter.
Mrs Smallwood held up her hands in horror.
“Oh, Mr Goodman,” she said, “you don’t think I sell that, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Goodman. “When I was here a few minutes ago I saw a parcel labelled ‘Badfort’ and smelling of fish. It was scob, now, wasn’t it?”
“Well, of all the cheeky cats! You are a bold-faced thing!” said Mrs Small-weed. “All right, I admit it. I do sell scob occasionally, but you mustn’t tell anybody where you got it. It wouldn’t do my business any good. Promise now.”
“All right, I promise,” said Goodman, and he seized the parcel of scob and rushed back to Homeward.
“Where d’you get it?” asked Uncle, curiously.
“Sorry, sir, I can’t tell you. I promised not to. Hope you don’t mind. It’s proper scob’s liver. I know about fish, and it’s got a sort of bitter taste—”
“Stop talking,” said Uncle, “and hand it over.”
They were all ready now for the spell, but it had taken such a long time that they decided to have lunch first.
After a substantial meal, during which the wizard kept boasting of his skill, they went back to where Cowgill had already warmed the pavement with his oxy-acetylene blowpipe.
Blenkinsop was in his element. He stirred in the liver and threw the ‘residue’ on to the warm flat pavement. It lay in the form of a rough arrow. Suddenly it moved, became longer, and pointed directly at a massive stone wall.
“That’s the place,” said the wizard.
They tried to move some of the stones. Then they hammered and pushed, and even thrust knives into the crevices, but all to no purpose.
At last Uncle, who had been growing impatient, ran at the wall and gave it a great kick.
TWELVE
They Reach the Fountains
UNCLE’S FOOT MUST have landed exactly on a secret spring for, all at once, with a rumbling sound, the wall slipped sideways on rollers, and before them stretched a short, well-lighted passage.
“There you are,” said Blenkinsop. “I knew it would work!”
Uncle said nothing. He thought it had taken rather a long time to do the spell but he was pleased to have made the opening kick.
This really was a short way to the fountains, for when the party got to the end of the passage all they had to do was to lift a plain wooden handle. A door opened, and there, before them, were fourteen of the drinking fountains.
They were very fine. Made in marble, each one was carved with an elephant’s head from the mouth of which water gushed. Uncle soon saw that some of the outlets must be choked up, for water was running over the marble rims of the basins. But that was not the worst thing. To his horror he saw that one of the marble mouths had been actually boarded up, and a shabby hut had been built in the dry reservoir beneath.
Over it was erected this sign:
YOUR SYD
Mends clocks, watches and windows, boils eggs and soup, does family washing (½d. per doz. pieces), knocks up workers at any given hour, frames pictures, wheels out invalids, trims hedges and hair, shaves beards.
YOUR SYD
Also sings at concerts, tans leather, teaches exhibition dancing, and washes dogs and cats.
YOUR SYD
Has the best house for dwarfs’ boots. A special line in dwarfs’ baby shoes. Difficult to get at most stores, but YOUR SYD has a large stock from Size 1 upwards.
P.S. Something New. High-heeled shoes for short dwarfs. Add at least an inch to your height. Why be downhearted?
“Oh, sir,” said the Old Monkey, “fancy setting up shop right in one of your fountains!”
Uncle motioned for silence and peeped into the hut. Inside was a thin man doing some washing in a small zinc bath. The clothes he was washing were so exceedingly small that they must have been dwarfs’ baby clothes.
“Hardly bigger than postage stamps, this lot!” he was sighing. “I’m sick of this job!”
He looked up, saw Uncle looming outside the doorway, and jumped violently.
“I am Uncle, the owner of this castle,” said Uncle solemnly. “I must ask you why you have the effrontery to set up a trading store in the bowl of one of my fountains?”
“There wasn’t anywhere else,” said Syd, trembling. “I’ve got to make a living somehow. I. . . I. . . didn’t stop the fountain up, sir. It was done before I got here!”
“A miscreant’s work!” said Uncle. “However, I can see you are an enterprising man, willing to do anything. Have you got a telephone?”
Syd looked like crying, but he pointed, with a soapy hand, to a kiosk over by the wall.
Uncle rang up Cowgill and told him to come at once with men and materials.
“Come by the route through Lion Tower; don’t try the wizard’s short cut,” said Uncle before he put down the receiver.
Then he went back to Syd and told him that he had sent for his engineer Cowgill, and that a good wooden hut would be put up for him near the fountains.
“In return for this,” said Uncle, “I wish for some information about the drinking fountains. They are meant for the good of the dwarf community and I can see they are not being cared for, or even used. Why is this?”
“They run with poisoned vinegar, sir,” said Syd.
“Poisoned vinegar!” trumpeted Uncle.
Everybody was shocked. Poisoned vinegar is used by the Badfort crowd to throw in people’s faces and make their eyes smart. Although it doesn’t actually poison people, one drop of it can make a whole tank of water bitter.
“The first taste is enough to stop you drinking any more,” said Syd. “It’s all right for washing, though.”
“This must be looked into at once,” said Uncle. “Whoever is doing this must be punished most severely. Let me see, the fountains are fed from a tank reservoir above. How can we get up there?”
“There’s an iron ladder, but it’s padlocked,” said Syd, “to stop the dwarfs’ children from getting up.”
Uncle, fortunately, had brought the right bunch of keys and they were soon up on a marble platform above the fountains.
This platform had a battlemented parapet all round it, and in the middle a huge tank reservoir with channels running from it to each of the fountains.
“Look at those, sir!” said the Old Monkey, pointing to ten little kegs which lay inside the parapet, nine of them empty and thrown on their sides, the tenth full and standing upright.
On each keg was a label which read as follows:
SNIPEHAZER’S VINEGAR (concentrated)
This preparation is undoubtedly the best on the market.
It is made with scrupulous care in our laboratory and is absolutely pure.
For making drinking water bitter bore a small hole in keg and set on edge of reservoir.
Use only Snipehazer’s Vinegar. The genuine article is made solely by T. Snipehazer (Wizard).
Do not accept imitations.
“Have you seen anybody up here?” asked Uncle, controlling his anger with difficulty.
“Only the man from the waterworks who comes every Thursday afternoon,” said Syd. “He comes to check the washers. All you can see from below is his bowler hat.”
“I should like to point out, sir,” said Will Shudder, “that this is Thursday afternoon.”
“Good, good,” said Uncle ominously, “we will take a look at this man from the waterworks.”
“That’s the way he comes,” said Syd, “through that lift.”
They had not long to wait before they heard the clanking of the lift door and a short man in a thick overcoat and a bowler hat came out. He was carrying a large gimlet. One look at the large projecting ears was enough
.
“Ha!” said Uncle to the Old Monkey. “It’s Goatsby!”
“What a good thing we came, sir,” whispered the Old Monkey. “No wonder we haven’t been hearing the fountains praised lately!”
As soon as Goatsby saw Uncle and his friends he turned pale, but he pocketed the gimlet hastily, and made a ghastly attempt at politeness:
“Oh, good afternoon, sir,” he said. “What a surprise to see you here!”
“I may say the same about you. What are you doing here?” asked Uncle, gravely.
“I like it here,” said Goatsby. “I come here for peace and quiet. I sit down by the side of this bubbling pool and think.”
“The reservoir of a drinking fountain is not exactly a public lounge, is it?” asked Uncle.
“It makes me happy to be here,” said Goatsby, with an utterly false laugh.
He was playing for time.
If it had been possible he would have dashed into the lift and vanished, but Uncle, Will Shudder, the Old Monkey, and Mute, his rake held menacingly high, barred the way and advanced towards him.
Goatsby dared not take his eyes off them, but at last, in spite of his thick overcoat, he turned to make a run for it. As he did so he stumbled over one of the empty kegs. The others lay beyond it.
He fell with arms outstretched across them, with such force that they ran forward like the wheels of a roller skate and tipped him head-first into the reservoir. He fell in with a mighty splash, sank and then came up spluttering.
“Let him flounder for a bit,” said Uncle, “and then pull him to the side with your rake, Mute.”
This was done, and the last they saw of Goatsby was a sodden figure with water dripping from his projecting ears crawling into the lift.
“That makes me feel better,” said Uncle.
He gave instructions for the fountains to be properly cleaned, and for Syd to be moved into the new hut. This was to be rent free on condition that he sent Uncle an account of the state of the drinking fountains every month. This he promised to do, and Uncle went home in high spirits.
THIRTEEN
Skinner’s Hotel
WHEN THEY GOT back from the drinking fountains Uncle made a new resolution. As he slowly drew up into his trunk a quart of hot coffee from the tub at his side, he said:
“I shall have to give more oversight to things, you know. The state of those drinking fountains was a disgrace, and look at this—”
He threw across the table a copy of the Badfort News.
“Oh dear,” said the Old Monkey, “has that paper-boy made a mistake again bringing that awful paper here? I’ve told him again and again!”
“I will be forced to take some action about this vile rag before long,” said Uncle. “That is quite clear.”
The Old Monkey read:
Our readers will be saddened to hear of another outrage by the Dictator of Homeward.
One of our esteemed citizens, Mr Laurence Goatsby, having heard of the disgraceful state of certain drinking fountains in Homeward, recently made his way there carrying a small keg of disinfectant, with which he hoped to make the fountains usable again. When he arrived on his errand of mercy he found the Dictator waiting for him. The latter made some offensive remarks and Mr Goatsby quietly tried to leave.
He was at once surrounded by a menacing crowd, some of them bearing lethal weapons. In an effort to escape with his life Mr Goatsby unfortunately tripped and fell into the fountain reservoir, and has been suffering since from shock and a severe cold.
We call on all citizens to rise and resist to the death – Uncle, the fierce fat fool of Gangster Castle, Liar County, Robber Country, Taken-in-and-done-for-World.
“Oh sir, I’m ashamed to read it!” said the Old Monkey, almost in tears.
Uncle threw the newspaper into the fire with a contemptuous gesture.
As it was blazing up, the cat Goodman skidded into the room. He was in such a hurry that he dashed himself against Uncle’s legs.
“Look where you’re going!” said Uncle, still rather cross after reading the Badfort News.
“Sorry, sir,” said Goodman, “but I was rather excited. What d’you think – a new hotel has just been opened, the Skinner’s Arms!”
“Where?” asked Uncle.
“In Skinner’s Lodge, that big old house between Badfort and Badgertown. You know all the doors and window frames have been torn off for firewood by the Badfort crowd.”
“Yes, I do know. It was a good house, and lately it’s been an eyesore,” said Uncle. “To have it done up and made into a good hotel is a splendid move. Who’s behind it?”
“A rich man called Battersby,” said Goodman, who, as usual, knew everything. “Oh, sir, it’s going to be wonderful! There’s to be a palm court – and a silver ping-pong room and very cheap meals.”
Uncle and the Old Monkey were deeply interested.
“I may as well go and stay there for a night or two,” said Uncle, “to make sure it is being run on proper lines and is a benefit to the neighbourhood. I am determined to keep a general eye on things.”
The Old Monkey was very pleased. A rest from housekeeping for a day or so would be a treat. He went off smiling to get lunch ready, but was soon back to say there was a visitor.
“He comes from the Skinner’s Arms, sir,” said the Old Monkey. “He’s very polite, I must say.”
“Show him in,” said Uncle.
A shabby leopard came in, bowing rather humbly. Across his breast he wore a flashy blue-and-gold streamer which read: ‘Skinner’s Arms. Help yourself from the Silver Soup Stream. Runs night and day.’
“Ah, a soup stream,” said Uncle, who loves a novelty of any kind. “This seems promising.”
“Oh it is, sir,” said the leopard, “and I’d be most grateful if you could see your way to make a firm booking. I get commission on each one, and to tell the truth I need every penny. I’ve got rather a big family, sir.”
“You can book a couple of rooms for tonight,” said Uncle, “for myself and the Old Monkey.”
“What about Goodman, sir?” asked the Old Monkey. “He told us about the Skinner’s Arms first, you know.”
“Very well, he can come as long as he sleeps in your room,” said Uncle.
So it was settled, and the leopard departed looking much happier as Uncle had given him a keg of salt beef for his large family.
At six o’clock that evening Uncle mounted the traction engine. He left Cloutman and Gubbins in charge of Homeward, with Captain Walrus on call.
When they arrived at the Skinner’s Arms they found hundreds of badgers, who had been attracted by the new spectacle, camped round the hotel. The old house had been much brightened up with new paint, and coloured lights, and flowers in tubs. The porter, a smart young bear, seized Uncle’s luggage and led them into the lounge. This was rather fine. It was painted blue and decorated with gold circles.
“Where’s the manager?” asked Uncle.
“There’s Mr Battersby, sir,” said the bear.
Mr Battersby came out of his office. He was a fairly tall man who wore dark glasses and what looked like a rather tight wig of red hair. Uncle felt he had seen him before somewhere, but where?
“Your appearance here, sir,” said Battersby, making a sweeping gesture of welcome, “reminds me powerfully of an experience I had in a hotel in Tokyo. We were all in the lounge, bored and listless, when a whisper went round, ‘Sir Thomas Tompkinson is here.’ In a moment, all our dullness was gone, for Sir Thomas was noted as a good companion, a keen wit, a splendid sportsman, and, above all, for his utter absence of swank. One young man said to me, ‘I could hardly bear to go on living, but now Tommy’s back I’ll try again!’”
This speech was listened to eagerly by a number of badgers who had managed to get into the lounge. Uncle couldn’t help feeling rather gratified.
“Thanks, Mr Battersby,” he said. “I’ll try to live up to your description. May I see my rooms now?”
“This way, sir,
” said Battersby and called down the passage:
“Moses, blow the trumpet of welcome!”
A lean fox began to blow into a small brass trumpet.
Mr Battersby clapped his hands and called:
“Agnes, unroll the Gold Carpet of Welcome!”
A small fat woman rapidly unrolled what looked like a yellow stair carpet, and Uncle tramped down it feeling a little embarrassed. Goodman scampered along behind, his white coat looking splendid against the yellow carpet.
Uncle’s room was large and spacious, and on one wall was a huge enlargement of a photograph taken years before of the opening of the dwarfs’ drinking fountains.
“Very well chosen,” said Uncle.
Soon they heard a loud smashing noise.
“Mr Battersby smashes a large jug every evening to show dinner is ready,” said Goodman. “Isn’t it splendid?”
“Remember we are here on a visit of inspection, Goodman,” said Uncle. “Your admiration should be moderate in tone.”
All the same there was a lavishness in this act which appealed to Uncle, and he made up his mind to try one day soon having an even larger jug broken to announce dinner at Homeward.
They went down to the dining-room eager to see the much-advertised silver soup stream. There it was, a silver channel running round the table filled with hot soup, which was kept moving by a number of small electric paddles. Everybody took as much as he wanted by dipping a serving mug into the stream.
The help-yourself method also applied to the gigantic cooked fish which lay on a silver platter which stretched the full length of the table. You just reached forward and took what you wanted.
“This is splendid, sir,” said the Old Monkey, dipping his mug into the soup stream for the third time. As for Goodman he was in raptures, having, for once, as much fish as he could eat.
Uncle’s pleasure in these arrangements was rather spoiled by the sight of a mysterious person at the other end of the table. He had propelled himself to the table in a wheel-chair, and his head was swathed in bandages. But he seemed to have a good appetite. He drank mug after mug of soup with a gulping noise that was distinctly unpleasant.