“Edison!” Jeronicus called as he set foot back in his shop, with Journey behind him. “Of course. He’s probably out there somewhere having fun.” He set down his giant basket. “Much packing to do. Much time to be made up.” He gestured. “See to it that these boxes are full.”
Journey indignantly tossed back her head. “But Grandpa, I don’t want to be—”
“Packing,” he reminded her, striding ahead.
“Grandpa, I was just trying—!”
“Boxes!” He marched upstairs. “Try to find the synchronicity between the two.”
Journey stuck out her lip. He really needed to lighten up. And where was Edison? Her grandfather was probably right and Edison was off having fun, maybe even having a snowball fight of his own. She picked one of the flyers up from off an old trunk whose bold letters shared that Pawnbroker was going out of business. She sighed. Then something on the floor caught her eye . . .
Edison’s glasses.
She picked them up and studied them. How odd.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
There was a loud banging from upstairs.
She rushed up to the workshop to find Edison, tied with a thick rope to the leg of the worktable. She rushed over. “What happened?!” Her nimble fingers hastened to free him.
“Gustafson!” Edison cried. “He started bragging that he was the greatest inventor, and how the professor hadn’t invented anything in years, and—”
Journey pulled the rope off him, and stared. “Edison, tell me you didn’t.”
He frowned. “I’m the worst apprentice ever. I mean, you’re a really bad apprentice, but not even close to how bad I am!”
Journey looked around. Just as she’d feared, the robot was gone. “Buddy,” she breathed.
Edison went to stand and bumped his head on the bottom of the table. “Ow! I’m okay.” Rubbing his noggin, he stood to join her.
“Where’s Buddy?” she asked frantically.
“I think I hear my mother calling me! Did you hear that? I definitely did.” Edison charged for the door. “Here I come!”
“Edison,” Journey said unyieldingly.
He paused in the doorway and glanced sheepishly back at her.
She took a heartened breath. “We have to get Buddy back.”
Much to Journey’s surprise, Edison nodded resolutely. “Yes, we absolutely do.”
* * *
Minutes later, Journey and Edison raced through the town and stopped in an alcove when they spotted Ms. Johnston’s mail truck parked on a sloping street. They quietly peeked out at it.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Journey asked.
Edison gulped. “If I say no, will you stop thinking it?”
Journey quirked an eyebrow. Then she bolted toward the truck, with Edison reluctantly following. They climbed into the open back, past piles of packages tied with string and stacks of sealed letters—likely presents and cards that might barely make it to their recipients before the big day. Just as they vanished into the depths of the truck, Ms. Johnston emerged from the florist’s.
“It’s new! I’m still getting used to it,” she called merrily to the florist. “I only almost killed one person today!” she joked. “Progress!” Then she closed the back of her truck, unwittingly sealing Journey and Edison in complete and utter darkness.
While most children their age were settling in for Christmas Eve, Journey and Edison sat in the cardboard-scented gloom as the truck lurched forward and started to Gustafson’s Factory.
Journey would stop at nothing to rescue Buddy.
It was her only hope of saving the shop, and the fate of her grandfather as well.
That very same Christmas Eve,
Gustafson had found another way
to put his wicked plan into play . . .
Chapter Seventeen
Gustafson admired his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his purple sash.
“The buyers are here? Again?!” Don Juan spoke to Gustafson from where he stood on his raised pedestal. “Did you not learn your lesson the last time?”
Gustafson straightened his neckerchief. “We saw it with our very own eyes.” He referred to when he and Don Juan had used their spyglass viewers (one human-sized and one doll-sized) at the office window to watch on the two children flying in Jeronicus’s workshop with the Buddy 3000. There was always something left indeed. And Gustafson had found it. It was why he’d gone out sniffing for information, though Journey had been reticent to divulge any. The fearful boy, however, had been more willing, or perhaps merely easier to trick. As soon as Gustafson had set his tall green music box down in the shop while the boy was packing, Edison was practically hypnotized by it. Stealing the robot after coercing the boy into telling him where it was had been simple. Tying the boy up, less so. But he had what he needed, and then some. Just like old times. A Jeronicus Original . . .
He strode to Don Juan and chuckled. “It’s foolproof!”
Don Juan slapped Gustafson across the cheek.
Gustafson recoiled, warily touched his own face, and winced.
“You are proof that there are fools! Fools, fools, fools, fools, fools!” Don Juan chided.
Steeling himself, Gustafson left to go meet his buyers. While every person had wanted the perfect gift for Christmas Day, Gustafson had been desperate and determined to deliver it.
They were going to love their shiny new toy.
And this time, it would work.
Journey knew Gustafson would go
to any lengths to figure out how Buddy worked.
She had to keep the last spark of hope alive,
not only for her grandfather and his shop,
but also for herself . . .
Chapter Eighteen
The mail truck crossed over the spindly suspension bridge that divided the town in half, heading toward Gustafson’s Factory, spewing acrid black smoke and glowing with sickly green lights.
Ms. Johnston pulled up and hopped out with her mailbag. Journey and Edison peeked out, eyes sweeping the grounds. Guards patrolled the entrance, stationed outside the high wall.
Then they raced through a maze of walls, rounded a corner, and stopped in their tracks.
Up ahead, they faced a giant, propeller-like fan with huge steel blades set into a grate. The big blades were motionless, so that beyond them, Journey and Edison could see a circular tunnel of sorts . . . an air duct leading back into darkness . . . A way into the factory!
Edison shivered. “We can’t go through there.”
“Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right,” she said, running headlong between two of the huge stationary blades and safely into the dark, green-tiled air duct.
“What does that even mean?” he called out behind her.
But she kept running, so he had no choice but to chase after her.
They moved through the tunnels until, eventually, they pushed up a little metal grate, and stepped out of the duct through the opening and into a packing room full of wooden crates and an oil lantern. Journey could tell that it led into a hallway beyond.
A voice sounded from somewhere in the factory. “I now present to you the premier pioneer of playtime products, and twenty-eight-time toy maker of the year! A man whose artistic excellence is unparalleled! Whose technological prowess is unmatched!”
At that, Journey tugged Edison’s sleeve. “Come on! Come on!” She led him around a dark bend. They rushed down the rest of the hallway until they reached a slightly open door. They peeked through the crack and into a room, where a man was addressing a small, seated crowd.
“The marvelous, miraculous, master of magnificence . . . The greatest inventor in all the land . . . Gustafson!”
The announcement was followed by a smattering of applause.
“Thank you.
” A far set of double doors opened, and Gustafson, in his suit, sash, shoulder cape, and tall top hat, spun around and stepped out onto a dais. “An interactive robot!” He flashed a dazzling grin, giving the same sort of pomp and circumstance from his days as a young apprentice. “What child could resist?” he inquired dramatically with a smug look on his face.
Journey and Edison moved around to the back of the showroom to get a better look, peering through the set of open double doors and down past the dais as Gustafson took the floor.
“My latest! My greatest!” He rested his hand over what Journey and Edison knew to be the robot covered by a satin sheet, pausing for dramatic effect. “The Buddy 3000!”
The sheet came away with a whisper. There, under a spotlight for the buyers to see, standing on a little table, was Buddy, his brass plates glowing golden in the light.
Gustafson tossed the silk sheet to his Head of Production, who caught it with ease. Then he pushed the cube fully into Buddy’s chest with a rewarding click.
Nothing happened.
Gustafson lifted his chin high. “We are simply waiting for it to warm up,” he assured.
Buyers exchanged glances, not wholly convinced.
“I was working on the housing and, um . . .” His fingernail rapped the cube. “Hello?”
A few contentious buyers snickered while others attempted to stifle their mocking laughter. Some skeptically quirked their brows. One woman stood, chortling, and began to waltz out.
“Oh no! Don’t miss it!” Gustafson warned her. “Cause you don’t wanna miss it.” He rested a hand on Buddy. “This is going to be amazing. The wow factor alone will knock your socks off,” he promised. Though he felt just as he had in his crummy youth: like a dud.
Buyers began to raucously laugh.
Sweat beaded on Gustafson’s brow. He rambled, hands tightly clasped. “I’ve used tin cogs as opposed to copper cogs and it makes the product lighter, which is easier for transportation when you bring it into your home for your children during this holiday season! Twenty-eight-time toy maker of the year!”
“They don’t believe!” Journey and Edison whispered to each other.
For although the greatest inventions in the land had been stolen by Gustafson, the title of the greatest inventor in the land was not something that could be taken. Especially when Gustafson’s inventions no longer worked, sputtering out like lost dreams—and he hadn’t expected for Jeronicus’s robot to backfire.
Journey knew that like an exacting formula, karma always netted out to zero in the end.
The showroom began to empty out, with buyers giggling their way through the open doors leading out into the crisp night, until the only one left was Gustafson’s Head of Production, who stood stoically on the other side of Buddy. The doors slammed shut, sending a cold draft gripping the back of Gustafson’s neck.
The sheen of showmanship slipped from Gustafson’s put-on cheerfulness. “Box this wretched thing up and send it where we send all ill-conceived toys,” Gustafson commanded, marching back toward the dais, where Journey and Edison were still spying through the doors.
“To retail, sir?” the Head of Production clarified.
“No!” Gustafson roared. “To the Crusher!”
The Head of Production gaped. “The Crusher?”
“Yes! The Crusher!”
Journey and Edison looked at each other, eyes wide.
This wasn’t good. They had to save Buddy!
They scrambled up and booked it down the hall.
* * *
A short while later, Journey and Edison gazed through the rails of a balcony at two guards on the floor below. They pushed a crate containing Buddy toward a noisy machine that looked like a glowing steel furnace. It made an awful racket, and steam hissed from its vents. The Crusher!
“I’ll distract them and you go get the crate.” Journey popped up above the railing and waved. “Hey!”
The guards looked up and saw her, then she took off down the hallway and they gave chase from below. Meanwhile, Edison sneaked down the stairs by the Crusher. He stealthily approached the crate, stopping short behind a pillar to make sure the coast was clear. The crate rested on top of a moving dolly—a wide wooden base with swivel wheels, a long metal handle, and a length of rope coiled up under the wheels. The crate itself had large slots in the wooden lid, and Buddy stared up lifelessly from inside. Edison took the handle of the moving dolly, and pulled.
He wheeled the crate around in a semicircle across the stone floor before gliding it down a smog-choked hall lit by dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Just then, two more uniformed guards clomped up a set of stairs from below. Edison kept going. The faster he ran, the faster the wheels of the dolly spun, clacking over metal scaffoldings. He burst into a warehouse room and rushed across a platform next to an oscillating machine, crate bumping along from behind.
Journey flew up a set of side steps and nearly smacked into him.
“The guards! They’re right behind me!” he cried, not slowing down.
Journey pushed the crate, joining him. “Come on! We have to get back to the tunnel!” She realized she wanted to commend him for his bravery. “You’re doing great, Edison!”
“You’re lying!” he shot back.
An alarm blared. Red lights flashed. Guards swarmed the halls.
Journey and Edison passed into the packing room and secured the giant doors, taking care to bolt the locks. Then they were running the crate back across the room toward the open grate.
“Edison! We have to hurry!”
They moved past piled crates, jolting one, which sent a ladder knocking over the oil lantern. It fell into an open crate full of hay. The flames danced ominously in the glass globe. But Journey and Edison were too focused on their escaping to have noticed.
“Intruder alert! Unauthorized children have been spotted on the premises! Apprehend them at once!” said a voice on an intercom.
They pushed the crate through the opening and stepped into the circular tunnel to join it.
Edison yanked the handle in an effort to rotate the dolly, but the handle broke in his grip! “Oh no! It snapped off!”
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Suddenly, there came a whirring from below. The sound of spinning blades.
Journey and Edison turned to one another. “Is that the fan?” Edison cried.
It had been scary enough to pass the blades when they had been still.
Now the blades were whirring like wild.
What could Journey and Edison do?
Jeronicus wandered up to his workshop,
where he had found neither kids nor robot . . .
Christmas Eve was beginning to lose its shine.
Chapter Nineteen
Jeronicus looked around the dark and noisy square, alive with Christmas Eve celebrations.
“Excuse me, sir! Sir? Have you seen my granddaughter?” he asked the butcher. “Her name’s Journey. She’s about this tall.” He moved his arms to demonstrate her height.
The butcher shook his head.
“She has cogs and screws in her hair!” Jeronicus told the greengrocer.
The greengrocer gave a shrug.
“She’s precocious! Annoyingly smart. But you like her once you get to know her! I’m getting there! I’m getting there!” he called to the carriage driver, whose eyes darted sideways.
Jeronicus’s face fell. No one had seen Journey or Edison. His concern grew grave. Where had they gone? He moved to search a different part of the lane when his sights fell on a posted flyer.
GUSTAFSON: MASTER OF MAGIC
—PRESENTS—
THE BUDDY 3000
TONIGHT ONLY!
He stared. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t have forked over his things . . .
Just then, he spotted Ms. Johnst
on driving her truck down the icy lane.
“Mrs. Johnston! Mrs. Johnston!” He stepped in front of the now-idling vehicle.
“Jerry!” she called out the window, delighted. “Jerry!”
“Could you take me to Gustafson’s factory?”
“Oh, Jerry, of course! Hop inside,” she called cordially.
“Jeronicus. My name is Jeronicus.” Still, he climbed in beside her.
“When you’re walking, it’s Jeronicus. When you’re riding with me, it’s Jerry!” she said in an affectionate singsong. Then she clutched the wheel, and the truck lurched forward. Cars and trucks were still fairly new to the world, and she was still fairly new to driving one, which may have showed.
The slippery, sliding trek sent Jeronicus’s stomach into knots, until eventually the truck grumbled across the endless bridge and jerked to a stop before the factory’s armed front gates.
Jeronicus crept out the side of the truck and tiptoed around to the back.
“Me again!” Ms. Johnston called to a guard.
“What business have you now?” the approaching guard quizzed her.
“Well, you see,” Ms. Johnston began, “I-I forgot to deliver these, didn’t I? Oh! Silly me! You know what it’s like, it being Christmas Eve and everything with all these parcels and gifts, you name it!” She eyed the label of a package in her hands and flipped it over before giving it very slowly to the guard.
Meanwhile, Jeronicus secretly made his way toward the side of the factory. He followed a high brick wall that zigged this way and zagged that, a sort of snowy maze with pillars topped with green lanterns, until he turned a corner and faced a wall of monstrous blades leading to a tunnel beyond. He almost set foot inside when the motionless blades began to spin like a giant airplane propeller, blowing him back in a brisk and intense gust of wind—and barring him from entry.
What could Jeronicus do?
Jingle Jangle: The Invention of Jeronicus Jangle Page 7