Uncle Cleans Up

by J. P. Martin

  The cheering that followed this announcement went on for more than a quarter of an hour.

  Uncle made a fine picture as he stood there, his trunk gently waving to and fro and a benevolent, yet firm look on his face.

  But that night a special edition of the Badfort News came out.

  THE DICTATOR’S BIGGEST STEAL

  We have pointed out, again and again, that the Dictator of Homeward is a thief. This afternoon he publicly admitted this. Filled with envy at the success of Mr Simon Eggman who has managed the Dwarftown Railway so well that the trains are always full, he got one of his brutal followers to knock Mr Eggman down and then calmly said: “I shall take all your money and bananas.”

  When Uncle read this he said in a stern voice: “I shall call at the office of the Badfort News tomorrow.”

  FIFTEEN

  Office of the Badfort News

  THE NEXT DAY Uncle got up still determined to go to the office of the Badfort News, and see what he could do to reform things. The paper was a disgrace. It was full of attacks against the people of Homeward, and against any sober, honest person or decent trader.

  The advertisements were also very low. Burglar outfits were offered for sale, also knuckledusters and false money. Uncle felt it was high time it was stopped.

  The Old Monkey knew it was very dangerous for his master to go to Badfort, but nothing would move Uncle from his purpose.

  He only took one stone club with him, to use as a walking stick, but he did take Cloutman and Gubbins as companions. This was a great relief to the Old Monkey. Also he was glad to have the cat Goodman with them because he makes even the most dangerous expedition cheerful.

  Strangely enough, nobody noticed Uncle and his party walk into Badfort. This must have been because the scob fish were coming up Black Treacle Creek that day.

  It is quite an event when this happens, for the Badfort people get scob oil from this small savage fish for their lamps, and also some people eat them.

  Now, over by the stream which runs through Badfort, people were fighting and shouting over one small scob fish.

  “This place never changes,” said Uncle; “it’s always full of quarrelling and shouting.”

  All the same they kept their eyes keenly on the look-out for any attack as they walked across the open space, scattered with tin cans and litter of all sorts, towards a broken-down hut, over the door of which hung a crooked sign which read:

  OFFICE. BADFORT NEWS

  It seemed to be a disused dance hall. There was no floor, for it had been torn up for firewood long ago. In the muddy earth were many impressions of a large pair of feet. Along one wall ran a daubed message:

  THE BADFORT NEWS NOW SELLS

  THREE MILLION COPIES PER DAY

  Underneath this was a counter, and behind the counter stood Beaver Hateman. He had his back to Uncle, and a man who looked like a commercial traveller was trying to sell him something.

  Uncle walked up to the counter and smacked it loudly with his trunk. Hateman threw a can of cold soup over his shoulder on to Uncle’s velvet jacket; otherwise he took no notice.

  “Attend to me!” shouted Uncle in a voice of thunder.

  Hateman still did not look round, but said: “I seem to hear somebody shouting who has a voice nearly as rotten as the Dictator’s!”

  Uncle was so overcome by this cool, vile behaviour that he stood speechless for a moment.

  The salesman lifted a large pair of boots on to the counter.

  “These are the Ben Bandit Patent Policeman’s Boots, Mr Hateman,” he said. “The heels are normal heels as long as the copper is just walking along, but the moment he starts to run after a thief they explode. That soon brings him to a standstill.”

  “How much?” asked Hateman.

  “Fifty pounds. It would be a hundred to anybody else.”

  “All right,” said Hateman. “My usual terms. One halfpenny at the end of the first six months, one penny at the end of the year, and so on. Then you’ve always got some money coming in.”

  “That’s not good enough,” said the salesman in a disappointed voice.

  “Oh, isn’t it?” said Hateman, and seized the boots and pushed them under the counter. “I’m tired of haggling. I’m confiscating the boots for your own good. If the police found you with them you’d be for it. I’m doing you a good turn by taking them.”

  “But what about paying?”

  “Paying! I’ve confiscated them! Nobody pays for a thing that’s confiscated, you moondog! And now get out!”

  Hateman seized the salesman and flung him out of a side door into some bushes. Then he slammed the door and turned round, and for the first time looked at Uncle.

  “Oh, it’s you!” he said. “What d’you want?”

  “I’ve come on serious business,” said Uncle, watching him closely and leaning on his stone club.

  “You mean you want to subscribe to the Badfort News!”

  This cheeky remark made Uncle boil over.

  “Your rag is vile!” he shouted, and then noticed that Hateman was trying to edge towards an open case of duck bombs. Duck bombs are missiles often used by the Badfort crowd. When they burst they cover the person they hit with a vile sticky juice which stops him moving.

  “Hold him, boys!” he shouted.

  Cloutman and Gubbins instantly pinned Hateman by the arms.

  “Now,” said Uncle, “I mean to see the place where you print your degraded rubbish!”

  The cat Goodman, who had been prowling round finding out things, came back to Uncle.

  “It’s here, sir, down this staircase. I can hear the clicking of a printing machine.”

  “Lead the way,” said Uncle. “Bring the scoundrel with you, boys,” he added.

  Cloutman and Gubbins forced Hateman down a narrow staircase, and Uncle, the Old Monkey and Goodman followed. In a damp dark room they found a small badger working a rickety old printing machine.

  “Are you employed by this man?” asked Uncle, pointing at Hateman.

  “Yes, sir,” said the badger. “He pays me a saucer of beans a day, and he’s going to pay me ten pounds a week when I can set type a bit better.”

  “Going to pay you!” said Uncle in bitter tones. “The old story!”

  “Oh, sir,” said the Old Monkey, “the poor little chap is actually chained to the machine!”

  “Cloutman,” said Uncle, “set this unfortunate creature free! Gubbins, hold hard on to your prisoner meanwhile.”

  It would have done you good to see Cloutman just take the chain and break it as if it were a thread.

  “Am I to go, sir?” asked the badger in astonishment.

  “Yes, and be quick!” said Uncle.

  The small badger was off up the stairs so quickly they couldn’t see him move. All they could see was the end of his chain as he whisked up the stairs.

  “And now,” said Uncle, turning to Hateman, “let us look at the news that unfortunate creature has been setting.”

  “Oh, shut up!” shouted Hateman, whose face was so full of rage it looked as if it had been roasted. “You’ve lost me my best printer! He was an apprentice too. His father paid good money for him to learn the printing trade.”

  “His father,” said Uncle, “never thought of him being fastened with a chain!”

  “And why not?” said Hateman. “Have you never heard of anyone being bound as an apprentice? I bound him a bit firmer than usual, that’s all!”

  But Uncle was hardly listening. His eye had been caught by the grimy piece of paper held by a skewer against the printing machine. It was the copy from which the badger had been working.

  “Hitmouse!” hissed Goodman. “That’s his writing, sir, I’d know it anywhere!”

  “This abominable sheet,” said Uncle, and breathed heavily, “is the work of your degraded reporter, Hitmouse.”

  “‘The Dictator Hit by Well-aimed Egg!’” read out the Old Monkey in a shocked voice. “Oh, sir!”

  Hateman laughed a
horrible bubbling laugh. It was too much.

  “Gubbins,” said Uncle, “is that a sliding door in the wall?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gubbins, “it leads to the moat.”

  “Open it,” said Uncle to the Old Monkey.

  Helped by Goodman, the Old Monkey managed to slide the door open. Cloutman and Gubbins dared not let go of Hateman who would have been up the stairs in a flash. As it was he struggled and yelled, but could do nothing.

  When the door slid back they could see, beyond a slope, the black waters of Badfort moat, thick with old cans and rubbish, a painful contrast to the clear beautiful stream round Uncle’s house. Beyond the moat lay the oozy stretches of Gaby’s Marsh.

  “Very satisfactory,” said Uncle, moving back for a run.

  “Now look here,” said Hateman, “if you kick me up all the things I’ve done to you so far will seem like rapture.”

  The Hateman crowd often kick each other, but they hate being kicked up by Uncle. It is ignominious and painful, and Uncle only does it when it is well-deserved.

  “Your threats have no effect on me,” said Uncle.

  “I shall have such a revenge that people will go grey when they hear of it!” yelled Hateman.

  “Let him go, boys!” shouted Uncle.

  Hateman bounded forward in an effort to get clear away. In vain did he try to dive into some withered bushes. There was a thud, and the body of the odious editor of the Badfort News soared up, up, up into the clear blue sky.

  Hateman let out a yell so furious that it frightened hundreds of herons who rose squawking and flapping with him.

  “Oh, sir, what a beauty!” sighed the Old Monkey. “One of your very best!”

  “He’s coming down in Gaby’s Marsh,” said Gubbins, “where the crabs are!”

  “And the barking conger eels,” said Goodman, running round in circles.

  Indeed, as they watched, muddy water rose in chocolate-coloured fountains away in the distance.

  “I trust,” said Uncle, turning away, “that we have seen the last of those evil writings in the Badfort News.”

  But the Old Monkey shook his head as they began to walk thoughtfully home.

  SIXTEEN

  The Sinking Parade

  IT WAS THE Old Monkey’s birthday and he had had a splendid lot of presents, gum boots (though he doesn’t often wear them, as his legs are too thin), a squash racket, a couple of chestnut roasters and several other things. His bedroom gets fuller and fuller. For instance, his window is so surrounded by tins of corned beef that it’s like looking through a tin tunnel.

  Uncle wanted to arrange a little extra treat for him.

  “Is there anywhere you would like to go for a trip?” he asked.

  The Old Monkey’s eyes shone. A trip to somewhere new in the castle is what he loves.

  “Oh sir,” he said, “d’you remember when we were on our way to the Fish-Frying Academy we saw a notice ‘To the Sinking Parade’. I’ve often wondered what it could be.”

  “We’ll go,” said Uncle. “Tell the One-Armed to get ready.”

  The One-Armed was not ready for once. He had been away gathering chrysanthemums for the Old Monkey’s birthday. He soon appeared, so surrounded by flowers that he looked like a walking bouquet. The moment he heard of the plan he hurriedly presented his flowers to the Old Monkey and waddled off to get his pack.

  “I seem to remember the notice was on the top of a battened-down hatchway,” said Uncle. “We’d better take Cowgill as there may be some engineering work to be done.”

  They also took Goodman and Butterskin Mute who had come to see the Old Monkey on his birthday. Cloutman and Gubbins were left to keep guard.

  They made their way to the summit of one of Homeward’s lofty towers, and there they found, as they expected, a hatchway labelled ‘Sinking Parade’.

  Cowgill had brought a powerful wrench and they soon had the cover loose. As the work was going on they thought they could hear a lot of shouting, and when, with a united effort, the hatch cover was pulled aside, they saw it had formed the roof of a room.

  The members of an indignant family were staring up at them. An old man and woman, a young couple and a number of children.

  “Who are you, you great fat bounder in a purple dressing-gown?” yelled the old man.

  “Modify your language,” said Uncle, sternly.

  “Here we are having to double up with Grandpa and Grandma because of the housing shortage,” shouted the young woman, shaking her fist, “and the moment we move in the place is broken up by a lot of inquisitive, idle rubber-necks!”

  Uncle had had enough of this, so he jumped down and put some money on the table.

  “We have come to pay a visit to the Sinking Parade,” he said. “If we have, unwittingly, done damage to your roof here is payment. All we want is to be shown the way to the Parade.”

  The whole family stopped being indignant and stared at the money. They seemed dazed by it. At last the old man, who said his name was Tom Fullglass, recovered sufficiently to insist that he should show them the way to the Parade.

  He was the worst possible guide. He was very apt to sneeze, and when he did he sneezed so violently that he turned a somersault. This made him quite uncertain about which way he was going.

  However, he got them into a dark gallery where a lot of people were sleeping against the walls and said he was sure this was the right way.

  “Who are all these people?” asked Uncle.

  Tom Fullglass sneezed again. He turned upside down and staggered about, and seemed unsure which end of the gallery they were making for.

  “Look here,” said Uncle, “I’m losing patience. You are not to sneeze again. It is a very bad habit you’ve got into. I want a clear statement about these people. Haven’t they got houses to sleep in?”

  Tom Fullglass didn’t speak for a bit. He went nearly black in the face, but managed not to sneeze. Everybody stood around waiting for him to speak.

  “All the houses round here have been grabbed by the Pointer family. I thought everybody knew that,” he said at last.

  “I did not know it,” said Uncle, “but it is pretty evident from the sight of these unfortunate people in this gallery that there has been some monkeying going on. No offence to you, my friend,” he said, looking at the Old Monkey.

  When they got out of the gallery they saw an amazing sight. Before them was an attractive circular lake with vast towers grouped round it. Round the lake ran a broad curved walk labelled Sinking Parade, and on the edge of this walk were a number of large roomy houses.

  Tom Fullglass, now that Uncle’s stern eye was not on him, was having an orgy of sneezing, but at last he recovered from this and hurried up to ask if he could guide them further.

  Uncle thanked him for his services, paid him half a crown to go away, coupled with a threat of a fine of five shillings if he came back, and most reluctantly he went off, sneezing and turning somersaults, like a living catherine-wheel.

  “Let’s look at the first of these Pointer houses,” said Uncle. It was a fine house, six storeys high. On the door-post was a sign:

  MR RICHARD POINTER

  No rooms.

  No organs.

  No circulars.

  Mr Richard Pointer was sitting under a cherry tree in his garden dressed in a rather old-fashioned silk suit.

  “No rooms!” he shouted as he saw Uncle’s party.

  Uncle did not reply. He wished to inspect more houses on the Parade before he entered into any discussion.

  It was very pretty by the lake. Parties of excursionists kept arriving, and all seemed filled with delight at the great expanse of clear blue water. Some had brought lunch and were already having a meal, sitting on the seats which were liberally scattered around.

  Uncle walked further along the Parade. All the houses seemed to belong to the Pointers. One was labelled:

  MR FRIENDSHIP POINTER

  No rooms.

  No organs.

  No cir
culars.

  No sellers of eagle beak fish.

  Another read:

  T. SMIGGS POINTER ESQ.

  No rooms.

  No organs.

  No circulars.

  No sellers of eagle beak fish.

  No sellers of snout eels.

  The largest house, near the middle of the Parade, had a summer-house in front of it. On the gate in gold letters was printed:

  MISS JEZEBEL POINTER

  No rooms.

  No organs.

  No circulars.

  No sellers of eagle beak fish.

  No sellers of snout eels.

  No visitors at all unless in possession of a card which must be examined by Miss Pointer’s personal attendant, Mr Albert Snell.

  “What is all this?” Uncle said irritably. Quite naturally he hates reading notices telling him not to do things when he is in his own house.

  He was about to charge up to the summer-house in which Miss Pointer, a rather plain elderly lady, was sitting when something surprising and terrifying happened.

  With a loud creaking, as of hidden machinery, a section of the Parade began to sink. It was soon covered with water. Luckily Uncle and his party were near the gravelled path which rose steeply as it led to Miss Jezebel Pointer’s summer-house, but the others on the Parade were soon struggling in the water, and might even have been drowned if two boats with the words ‘RESCUE. Price per head, 10s.’ printed on their sides had not approached them rapidly. Uncle was appalled to see that before they were admitted to the boat the money had to be handed over.

  After this the holiday-makers, wet and frightened, and with their holiday money greatly diminished, were landed on the Parade again.

  Before Uncle could get to Miss Pointer a fat man with very short legs ran up to him and said sharply:

  “Where’s your card? You can’t go up there without a card.”

  Uncle looked him over and then said in a terrifying voice:

  “One word more and I’ll spill you in the lake.”

  Snell seemed overpowered and Miss Pointer’s face took on a purple hue.