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.
“Who is that?” Uncle asked Battersby, who had come in to see if all was going well.
“That’s Mr Bateman, our permanent guest,” said Battersby. “He’s an invalid, but very brave.”
“He doesn’t look much like an invalid to me,” said Uncle, “and I don’t like the way he keeps dipping that mug into the soup.”
“It’s running away from you, sir,” said Battersby.
“Yes, I dare say,” said Uncle, “but it comes round my way afterwards.”
Because he found the manners of his fellow guest so unpleasant Uncle was glad when dinner was over.
Outside his door he found a group of musicians. One had a bassoon, one a flute, while a dwarfish creature, dressed in a kimono, was playing a zither. They all began to sing a song when Uncle appeared.
“We love to hear of Uncle’s deeds,
He makes us feel so glad;
His bounty makes the poor man rich,
And fills with joy the sad.
“How vast his stores of ham and lard,
How huge his vats of oil. . .”
It went on for about twenty verses, and still there seemed no prospect of it coming to an end.
“Thank you, friends,” said Uncle, “for your singing. I’m going to bed now, but you can go on all night if you like.”
He gave them some money and closed the door of his room.
“Now for bed,” he said.
The Old Monkey was there to make everything comfortable, and he turned on the bedside lamp. The moment he did so it exploded with a loud report.
This made Uncle jump and he sat down rather hurriedly on the bed.
There was a cracking noise, and at once the bed legs began to go through the floor. The boards were flimsy and worm-eaten, and before Uncle could get up he had crashed, with the bed, through a jagged hole in the floor into the room below.
The bed took some of the force of the fall as its legs collapsed under it, but he fell with a nasty jar.
Sickening clouds of plaster and dust filled his nose and eyes.
Trumpeting loudly with rage, and half-blinded, he took some seconds to see that in falling he had bowled somebody over, and that a huge roll of bandage was looping and unrolling along the floor. It only needed one glance at the sack suit and huge feet to tell Uncle who the soup-drinking invalid had been.
“So it was you, Beaver Hateman!” shouted Uncle, hurling a bed-leg at him. “No wonder the food stuck in my throat!”
Hateman hopped on to the window-sill. “Thanks for falling on me, you fat old barrel of lard,” he said. “You’ve given me a good idea which I shall use to bring about your downfall – and soon!”
Then he vanished, laughing hideously.
The Old Monkey and the cat Goodman were looking down anxiously through the hole in the ceiling.
“Oh, sir, are you hurt?” asked the Old Monkey, with tears in his eyes.
“Not severely,” said Uncle, “but my suspicions about this place have now been fully confirmed. Go to the office, ring up for the traction engine and ask for my bill.”
“I’ll help you brush yourself clean, sir,” said the cat Goodman, jumping through the hole on to the wreckage. “I’m good at that.”
When Uncle and Goodman went into the lounge Battersby came out of his office to meet them.
“I’m very sorry to hear you have had a slight mishap, sir,” he said. “Another room is, however, being prepared.”
“I am not staying. Your floors are unsafe,” said Uncle.
“Not for persons of ordinary weight, if you will excuse my saying so,” said Battersby, smiling odiously.
“If you run a hotel a person of any weight must be safe on any floor,” said Uncle. “My bill, please.”
Battersby went into his office and brought out a long sheet of parchment, very neatly made out.
Uncle took it, frowning, and began to read; as his eye fell on one item after another he felt his temper mounting.
Due to Skinner’s Arms Hotel
With a great effort Uncle kept control of himself. Then he tapped the parchment.
“Explain this monstrous bill!” he said, his trunk waving to and fro, in the way it did when he was really angry.
“It’s quite moderate,” said Battersby. “Dinner 3s. 6d., two rooms 2s. 6d. – for three people, mind.”
“This bill,” said Uncle, “is a ramp!”
“A ramp? What is a ramp?” asked Battersby.
“A ramp is an attempt to get money by false pretences,” said Uncle. “I refuse to pay, of course.”
“Indeed,” said Battersby, with a rascally smile. “This will look well in the Badfort News.”
Then Uncle noticed that the little creature in the kimono who had been playing the zither outside his room was sitting at a coffee-table writing on what looked suspiciously like a hating book.
“I see, you’ve got their reporter here!” said Uncle.
“Hitmouse!” hissed Goodman.
“I am not afraid of anything that may be said in that scurrilous rag,” said Uncle. “And I will make sure a strong article warning people about this hotel goes into the Homeward Gazette.”
“Oh nobody reads that boring old paper!” said Battersby.
“Meanwhile,” said Uncle, “as I am unusually heavy I will send workmen to repair the bed and ceiling. For the rest I give you two pounds – and that’s the lot.”
Battersby now lost his temper completely.
“You’ll go to prison for this!” he yelled.
At the sound of his rasping furious voice a terrible suspicion seized Uncle. Goodman must have felt the same, for he suddenly jumped on to Battersby’s shoulder and pulled off the tight red wig. At once a pair of huge ears flopped out.
“Goatsby!” said Uncle, breathing hard. “So it was you, Goatsby, trying once more to defraud me!”
“You’re defrauding me!” Goatsby was now nearly beside himself. “You’ll get six months in prison for this! No, six years – sixty!”
“Perhaps you have forgotten,” said Uncle in grave tones, “that I am the chief magistrate in this area. Can you see me sentencing myself?”
Seeing that he was likely to be involved in a vulgar struggle if he stayed longer Uncle made his way to the traction engine and they rode home.