Back at the junkyard, things were getting tense.
Billy’s my favorite, even if I’m not his, thought Ollie. He’s in danger, and I’ve got to help him. He felt this with the purity and strength that comes with having been a favorite toy. He threw me away! And that thought hurt him all the way past his stuffing and into whatever kind of soul a toy has.
The Junkyard Gang knew exactly what Ollie was feeling. If given a chance, any one of them would have rejoined their Humes, too! And while they knew this couldn’t happen for them, now was a chance to be useful again. USEFUL! To be of use! And so they banded together—constructing themselves into the most unlikely cavalry of the cast off, the forgotten, and the brave—to help.
Other pieces of junk eagerly joined in the quest. Chilly, an empty refrigerator who had been junked the longest of anybody, had been the first to volunteer, and he was now being fitted with mismatched tires and wheelbarrows and a makeshift sail. The plan was to turn him into a method of swift transportation. A lawn mower named Clipper Greenfellow came forward. His cheerful, aristocratic manner gave the endeavor a certain what-the-heck flair. “Step back, fellow Junks. I’ve mowed the best lawns and putting greens from here to Hyde Park, and I’m ready to cut the Zozo riffraff down to size! My, I feel yar!” he drawled in his New England–playboy voice.
Reeler used his ample high-tension fishing line to bind Chilly and Clipper together. Topper, with a skill earned from opening tens of hundreds of bottles and cans, cut whatever needed cutting, adding the final touches that would turn Chilly from an oversize, white-enamel metal box into the first ever all-terrain mobile-junk attack vehicle.
Keys typed out last-minute instructions while Clocker reminded them that time was ticking.
Lefty, the only one with four fingers and an opposable thumb, was invaluable in grabbing what needed grabbing and in tying things together.
Brushes gave everyone a quick sweep so they’d look shipshape.
Pet Rock—well, Pet Rock sat in Chilly and waited. “It’s not like I’m really made to do much,” he said a little defensively. “I’m a pet rock.”
When Keys clacked out the words, “Let loose the dogs of war!” a slew of volunteers rushed to join, filling Chilly to the brim, including a bowling ball named Burt; a platoon of knives, spoons, trowels, and kitchen utensils; and quite a few empty cans organized by Tinny.
Ollie stood on what was the sort-of deck of Chilly and wondered what to say to get them started. Keys supplied him with a quickly typed and perfectly historical phrase: “Damn t e torpedoes, full speed a ead.”