CHAPTER 8

acob Two-Two considered his father a pal. After he had finished work, he often took Jacob Two-Two out for a walk.

The next afternoon, in fact, they wandered as far as his father’s old neighborhood, which Noah had once described as DADDY’S HARD TIMES TOUR, a trip each child in the family had to endure at least once, obliged only to say “oooh” or “aaah” at the right moments. Now Jacob Two-Two told his father that in the week since the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts had been appointed headmaster of Privilege House, the lunches they had to eat were either tasteless, horrible, or downright disgusting, and sometimes all three, and he went on to describe a few.

“Aw,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, “you only feel that way because your mother cooks such delicious meals for us. It can’t be that bad.”

“But it is,” said Jacob Two-Two. “It is.”

“Why when I was your age, the school I attended didn’t even serve lunch to the children. No sirree. I had to get up in the wintry dark, shake out the ice that had formed on my blanket during the night, and make my own lunch. Usually a lettuce sandwich made with one-day-old bread, which my mother could buy more cheaply than fresh bread.”

“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”

“And sometimes,” said his father, “I had to share that stale bread sandwich with boys who were even poorer than we were.”

“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”

“You see that building over there?” said his father, pausing to blow his nose. “It’s the Stuart Biscuit Company. When I was your age, they used to let us in a side door, where we could buy a bag of broken biscuits for two cents, and sometimes a couple of us chipped in to buy a bag.”

“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”

On the next street Jacob Two-Two’s father said, “In winter, we used to play street hockey out here, using a piece of coal for a puck, because that’s all we could afford.”

“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”

“And when the game was over, we’d fight over who got to keep the piece of coal, which could be added to the furnace fires that kept our homes from freezing. Now, you, on the other hand, are lucky enough to attend the most expensive private school in town. So I don’t want to hear any more complaints about your lunches. As it happens, they are prepared by my old schoolfriend Perfectly Loath-some Leo Louse, who enjoys an excellent reputation as a cook.”

When they got home Jacob Two-Two took his problem to his mother.

“Well now,” she said, opening the oven to test a baked potato, “you must remember that the starving children of Africa would be grateful for any kind of school lunch. And isn’t it possible that you’re exaggerating, darling, if only just a little?”

“No, I’m not. I’m not.”

“Jake, if I talk to you any more now, our dinner will burn.”

So Jacob Two-Two raced to the CHILD POWER Command Tent in the backyard to consult with the dynamic duo, Noah and Emma, alias the fearless O’Toole and the intrepid Shapiro.

“What did you bring us?” asked Emma, blocking the entrance.

“A problem,” said Jacob Two-Two, pushing past her. “A problem.” And then he told them about it.

“CHILD POWER is overwhelmed with problems these days,” said the fearless O’Toole, alias Noah.

“Busy, busy, busy,” said the intrepid Shapiro, alias Emma.

“We have a report of a babysitter who raids refrigerators and then blames it on the kids left in her charge.”

“Then there’s the case of the apartment building that won’t rent to families whose kids keep rabbits, gerbils, snakes, cats, hamsters, canaries, dogs, or other pets.”

“But I’m your brother,” said Jacob Two-Two. “My problem should come first.”

“If you don’t care for your school lunches why don’t you do something about it?”

“Me?” Jacob Two-Two asked, startled. “But I’m so little.”

“We will only help you once you’ve learned to help yourself,” said the fearless O’Toole.

“You’re no longer a baby,” said the intrepid Shapiro.

There was only one thing for it now, thought Jacob Two-Two. He would have to take his problem to his new friend, Mr. Dinglebat. But as he approached the house next door, he noticed a huge yellow balloon tied to the trunk of the maple tree on the front lawn. That meant Mr. Dinglebat was away on a secret and undoubtedly dangerous mission, and there was no saying when he would return. Whatever am I going to do? thought Jacob Two-Two, trudging home for dinner. Whatever am I going to do?