Backstage, Loyd tripped over Lloyd as they both dove for the animals’ water bucket. Their legs tangled together and they both went plummeting to the ground, landing face-first in the bucket. “Get me out of here!” Loyd yelled through a mouthful of water. Their arms and legs flailed in unison as they both fought to get out of the bucket first.
“You almost drowned me!” Lloyd yelled as he finally sat up, water streaming down his face.
“You almost drowned me!” Loyd yelled back, water gurgling from his nose.
“Me!”
“Me!”
Suddenly Lloyd paused. “Was there something we were supposed to be doing?” he asked.
“I think there was,” Loyd replied thoughtfully. “And I think it was this!” With a gleeful laugh, he shoved his brother’s face back into the bucket of water.
Out in the ring, Lord Jest was dipping his trunk into his own bucket of water, sucking up every last drop.
“Water!” Claude yelled again. “Someone! Now!” His eyes landed on a man in a suit, who was running full speed toward the exit, pushing kids out of the way left and right. “Ames!” Claude called out. “Don’t leave!” But the man in the suit ignored him, sprinting out of the tent.
Behind Claude, Lord Jest calmly lifted his trunk out of the bucket. Aiming it at the tallest flames, he shot out a powerful stream of water. “How ’bout that?” He beamed as the flames sputtered and died out, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of ash behind. Sweeping his trunk through the front of the ring, Lord Jest shot water at every flame and spark and sizzle. Within seconds, he’d put the entire fire out before it could spread outside the ring.
The tent fell suddenly and completely still. Screams faded and footsteps halted and every eye in the tent turned to Lord Jest. Tentatively, someone clapped. Then someone else. Soon, the tent was filled with applause.
“Thank you, thank you,” Claude said shakily.
“They’re not clapping for you,” Lord Jest honked. He lifted his trunk proudly in the air. “They’re clapping for me!”
A bead of sweat dripped its way down Claude’s brow as he tried unsuccessfully to close his torn vest. “That, uh, amazing rescue was brought to you by our very own circus-elephant, Lord Jest!” he announced. He laughed nervously, tugging at his vest again. “Sorry if we got your heart racing a little there! But all’s well that ends well, right? Especially at the circus! Now if you can all proceed to the exit in a calm and orderly fashion. And thanks again for coming to the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus, the show that, uh . . . keeps you on your toes!”
Claude kept a smile plastered on his face until the last of the guests had left. But as soon as the tent was empty, he marched backstage, his face contorting with fury. In the chaos of the fire, most of the employees had sprinted out of the tent, leaving only Lloyd, Loyd, and Susan waiting with the animals. The Nillings had been the first to leave, shouting wildly in their language as they pushed in front of each other to get to the exit. Susan had almost followed them, but then she’d looked back at the animals, shaking as they cowered away from the flames, and she found she just couldn’t leave. “Lloyds! Susan! Bring the animals backstage,” Claude barked. “NOW!”
Smalls felt a chain wrap around his neck. With a yank, Loyd jerked Smalls backstage. “YOU!” Claude burst out when he saw him. He spit a fingernail out at Smalls. “What happened out there, you worthless bear?” He lifted his foot, giving Smalls a swift kick to the stomach.
Smalls winced. “It wasn’t my fault,” he tried to tell Claude. “The whole fire stick went up in flames—”
Claude cut him off with another kick to the stomach. “Don’t you growl at me, you WORTHLESS BEAR!”
“Stop it!” Tilda exploded. Smalls looked over at her in surprise. She was trembling a little, but there was a fierce expression on her face as she glared up at Claude. “You . . . you big bully!”
“Quit that yapping!” Claude ordered. He kicked Tilda too, sending her skidding across the floor. Then for good measure, he kicked Wombat, who collided into Tilda. “No more squeaks or grunts or growls or”—his eyes landed on Rigby—“barks!”
Ducking out of his chain, Rigby ran over to Susan and leapt frantically into her arms. His legs splayed out on either side of her and with a yelp, he buried his head in her shoulder.
“Shhh,” Susan whispered, staggering backward under his weight. “It’s okay, Rigby.” Shivering, Rigby peeked up at her through a mop of fur. His dark eyes were wide and round, and it struck Susan suddenly how young he seemed, not much older than a puppy. “I’ve got you,” she told him. She tightened her grip on his back and slowly she felt his shivers start to subside.
Meanwhile, Claude was stomping angrily through the tent, kicking at anything—or anyone—that got in his way. “You vile, worthless animals,” he seethed. “You’ve ruined everything! How am I ever going to sell the circus now? Ames sprinted out of here like the place was on fire. Oh, wait—because it WAS!” He shouted the last word, pounding on Lloyd’s shoulder with his fist. “The whole finale was a . . . a . . .”
“Calamity?” Wombat offered as he pulled himself off Tilda.
“Disaster!” Claude finished.
Claude kept yelling, but Susan had stopped listening. What did Claude mean by sell the circus? She lifted one of her hands off Rigby’s back. There was a clot of blood dried on it from where another blister had popped during her performance tonight. Did Claude really want to sell the circus? Hope lifted inside her like a balloon. Would that mean she could go home?
“Bertie!” Claude yelled, making Susan jump. He spun around, scanning the tent. “Boy!” he tried again. “Bring me Wilson!” But no one stirred in the tent.
Stay away, Bertie, Susan begged silently. The last thing Claude needed right now was that stick.
“BERTIE!” Claude tried once more. “BRING ME WILSON!” But still no small boy appeared backstage.
“Fine. Who needs him?” Claude gnawed on a fingernail, spitting it angrily at Juliet. She flinched as it landed on her muzzle, sliding off her nose. “Lloyd, Loyd, lock the animals back up in their cages,” Claude continued. “No dinner for any of them tonight. Or,” he added cruelly, “any meals tomorrow. These animals better get used to being hungry.”
Lord Jest’s trunk snapped up. “How ’bout the elephant, Boss?” He walked over to Claude, looking down at him pleadingly. “I saved the day for ya! I want my real dinner.”
“Stop that awful honking, elephant. It’s hurting my ears.” Lifting his foot, Claude gave Lord Jest a hard kick. His shoe collided with an old wound on his trunk, and Lord Jest cried out as it split open again.
“But I saved the day,” he said weakly. “I’m supposed to be the hero.”
“I said NO HONKING!” Claude gave Lord Jest another kick, right in his open cut.
As blood trickled down Lord Jest’s trunk, he ducked his head, whimpering softly.
“Worthless animals,” Claude muttered. “All of them.” Then he turned on his heels and stormed out of the tent.
Chapter Thirty-two
A Covert Op
Bertie stood inside a fold of the tent’s curtain, Lord Jest’s whimper ringing in his ears. His knuckles were white from clutching Wilson so tightly, and inside him, an argument was raging.
You have to do something, his heart was telling him.
You can’t do something, his brain fought back. It’s not safe!
But the animals need me, his heart replied.
And you need your limbs, his brain argued. If Claude catches you . . .
A succession of images flashed through Bertie’s head. May’s inflamed wound. Lord Jest’s injured trunk. His own legs, wobbling uselessly after days in that cabinet.
He peeked out through the curtain. Claude was gone, and Lloyd and Loyd were dragging the animals out of the tent. Berti
e flinched as he caught sight of the blood dripping down Lord Jest’s trunk. Behind him, Smalls let out a strangled cough as Loyd tightened the chain around his neck, and Tilda shrieked as Lloyd lifted her into the air by a paw. Bertie squeezed Wilson even tighter, the cool metal of the stick cutting into his skin. It didn’t matter what happened to him. He had to do something.
In the back of the tent, Loyd grabbed Rigby out of Susan’s arms. “Get out of here, squirt,” he said, giving Susan a shove. “The animals are my job.” Susan kept her eyes on Rigby as she headed reluctantly toward the exit. But as she passed by the fold in the curtain, she caught sight of two bright blue eyes peeking out. She stopped short, staring at Bertie. He held a finger to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet.
“Is there a problem, squirt?” one of the Lloyds asked sharply.
“No,” Susan said quickly. She hurried on to the exit, but when the Lloyds weren’t watching, she glanced over her shoulder at Bertie.
Kitchen, he mouthed. Claude used to keep the kitchen caravan locked up tight, but during a storm last month, the lock had broken—and he had yet to replace it. Meet you there, he added. Susan gave him a tiny nod before slipping out of the tent.
Bertie waited until the Lloyds had led all the animals out of the tent before emerging from his hiding spot. Taking Wilson with him, he dashed outside. He didn’t break until he’d reached the kitchen caravan. But in front of the door, he paused, his stubborn brain flaring up once again.
If Claude finds you . . . it began.
Bertie didn’t give it time to finish. He flung open the door, stepping inside. Susan was waiting with her back pressed up against the wall. “I’ve never been part of a covert op before,” she said with a grin. “What are we doing here?”
“Food,” Bertie declared. “We need food for the animals. And something to clean out Lord Jest’s wound. And,” he added, eying a streak of dried blood on Susan’s palm. “Yours.”
Susan went over to the sink, running soapy water over her palm. “Better,” she said. “I keep thinking I’ll work up the courage to ask Claude for ointment, but not today.” She shook her head. “Did you hear him in there, Bertie? He was . . . out of control.”
Bertie crouched down, rummaging through the cabinets. They were smaller than the ones in the supply caravan, and he tried not to think of what it would be like to be locked in one.
Susan began soaping up a washcloth for Lord Jest. “And he said something about selling the circus!” she said.
Bertie nodded. “I heard.” A scene played out in his head suddenly: Claude leaving the circus and forcing Bertie to come with him, somewhere with no Susan and no Smalls, only Claude, morning, noon, and night. “You don’t really think he would do that, do you?”
Susan draped the soapy washcloth over her shoulder. “I don’t know why he would.” She walked along the length of the train, looking thoughtful. “Didn’t your grandfather start this circus? His father?”
“He did, but it’s been Claude’s for almost ten years now. And I think he’s hated it for just as long.” In the back of one of the cabinets, Bertie’s hand closed around a jar. He pulled it out. It was a jar of peanut butter, still half full. Claude fed the animals peanut butter when he thought they’d performed exceedingly well—which was rarely. This jar had lasted a year already and would probably last another if Claude had anything to do with it.
Which he won’t, Bertie decided. Behind the peanut butter was a sack of carrots—old, but not so old they’d grown mold yet. “Perfect,” he said triumphantly. “I’ve got the food.”
“And I’ve got the washcloth.” Susan paced distractedly to the other side of the caravan. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Claude would bring in all these new animals if he’s trying to sell the circus? It’s almost as if he brought them in to help sell the circus.” She walked faster, pacing back and forth. “What if he did? Maybe—”
Before she could finish that thought, her foot smashed into a loose floorboard. “Ow!” She grabbed her foot in her hand, hopping up and down. “Ow, ow, ow!”
As Bertie ran over to help her, something on the ground caught his eye. The floorboard. She’d dislodged it with her foot. It was now sticking up in the air, revealing a fabric-lined compartment hidden underneath. “Susan, look.” Kneeling on the ground, he pulled the floorboard up the rest of the way.
Susan crouched down next to him, forgetting all about her foot. “A hiding spot,” she said excitedly, leaning in. Nestled inside the compartment was what looked to be a jewelry box. It was made of dark mahogany wood and had a checkered pattern inlaid across the top. Susan reached down, running her finger along the top of it. She knew that box.
Her dad had made it for her mom years ago. He’d carved her name across the front: PAULA, in sweeping, curling letters. Her mom had stored spoons in it, keeping it on a ledge in the kitchen. But not long before Susan had been sent off to work at the circus, her mom had given it to her as a gift.She’d even had Susan’s dad add her name to the other side: SUSAN, in the same sweeping, curling letters. “For you, no spoons,” she’d told Susan. “One day you will have jewelry to put in this box.”
Like almost everything else, Susan had been forced to leave it when she joined the circus. With shaky hands, she pulled out the box. Right away she saw it: the letters of her name, curling across the side.
“It’s yours?” Bertie asked softly.
“It was,” she said. “Once.” She tried to open the top, but it was locked. There was a hole for a key in the front, and she vaguely remembered the skeleton key that went to it, long and bronze, with a handle that looped and curved. She gave the box a shake, and something jostled lightly inside. It wasn’t empty.
“Why would he hide it from me?” she murmured. “And why would he lock it?” She stood up abruptly, hugging the box to her chest. She had to get it open. She had to find out what was inside.
“Claude keeps all his keys on a chain next to his bed,” Bertie said.
Susan looked over at him in surprise. He was smiling at her, a mischievous look in his eyes. Gently, he removed the washcloth from her shoulder. “Go,” he said, nodding toward the door.
Susan hugged the box even tighter. “You’ll be okay?”
“Food and washcloth,” Bertie said, holding them out to show her. “I’ve got it covered.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then, with the box pressed against her, she jumped down from the caravan.
Behind her, Bertie closed up all the cabinets, making sure everything was exactly how he’d found it. He was just finishing up when something in the corner of the caravan caught his eye. Another floorboard, warped from years of wear, was poking up at the corner the slightest bit.
Suddenly, he had an idea. Hurrying over to the floorboard, he crouched down on the ground and began yanking at it with all his might. After a few seconds, the floorboard came loose with a loud creak. Bertie broke into a smile as he lifted it up. Underneath was a hole just large enough to conceal a long metal stick.
Picking up Wilson, Bertie shoved the stick into the compartment under the floor. Then he carefully fastened the floorboard over it again, giving it a good stomp to make sure it was tightly in place. “Ha,” he said, smiling widely. “Let Claude find you there.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Buck Is at Your Service
Back in their cages, the animals were hungry, and they were grumpy.
“I’m too hungry to sleep,” Rigby groaned.
“I’m too hungry to clean,” Tilda sighed.
“I’m too hungry to think,” Wombat chimed in.
“Stop your whining already!” Lord Jest snapped. “You’re not the ones who spent all your time planning a sabotage, just to—” Suddenly he stopped short. “Never mind,” he said quickly. But it was too late.
“Sabotage?” Smalls a
sked slowly. It was a Wombat kind of word, a word that made you stop and think.
In her cage, Juliet leapt to her feet. “Sabotage?” she repeated.
“My fire sticks,” Smalls said as it dawned on him. “You did something to my fire sticks to make them burst into flames!”
Lord Jest shrugged his trunk. “It might be possible your fire sticks found their way into the vat of oil at the concession stand,” he admitted, unable to keep a note of pride from creeping into his voice.
“My tightrope.” Wombat’s ears shot straight up. “You used oil to grease it, didn’t you? I knew I wasn’t to blame for my faux pas!”
“And you put mud in my top hat,” Tilda wailed. She looked miserably down at her soiled fur. “I’m going to have to go through my sixteen-step grooming process at least sixteen times to get this out!”
“The hole in my beach ball,” Rigby chimed in, sounding bewildered. “That was from you?”
Lord Jest twirled his trunk. “So what if it was?”
“Hey, the hole in the ball was my idea,” Buck protested.
“You were part of this, Buck?” Juliet slapped her tail angrily against the bars of her cage. “Why would you do that?”
“They were getting too good, Juliet,” Buck said. “You saw the bear. He was doing the hardest trick in the circus, and he was nailing it.”
“We were trying to get more food for the Lifers,” Lord Jest declared.
“And instead you got us all starved,” Hamlet replied.
“At least we tried something,” Buck argued. “Though for the record, pretty puff,” he told Tilda, “I was all for putting a little oil in your hat instead. I said, why mess up that pretty fur when we can just make her slip and fall? But if you need any help cleaning, Buck is at your service.”
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 12