Winifred and Winston Poore, at the same moment, were marveling at their dinner. Several courses! Soup, to start with. Back in their house, soup was a frequent meal, but it was always the main course, and consisted of the previous night’s stew with water added. But here, in the mansion where Richie lived with his parents, the first course, served by a maid, was a delicious thick soup in porcelain bowls with a thin gold rim. And special soup spoons! The Poore children had to watch carefully to see what utensil to use, because there were several pieces of silverware lined up at each place.
“Yum!” Winslow said, after his first spoonful.
“Wild mushroom bisque,” Richie’s mother explained.
“You could kill someone with wild mushrooms if you picked the wrong kind,” Richie announced. “That’s how the King of the Elephants died, in Babar. He ate a toxic shiitake.”
Then he added, “I have the whole set of Babar books. First editions. After dinner I’ll show you my Book Room.”
“What about these mushrooms?” Winifred asked. She suddenly felt a little nervous even though the soup was delicious.
“No need to worry,” Ruth Willoughby reassured her. “These are quite safe. Actually, Tim and I have studied mushrooms1 quite extensively. The ones in your soup are morels and chanterelles.”
“I wish I could study something interesting, like mushrooms,” Winifred said. She finished eating her soup now that she’d been reassured. “Something besides reading and arithmetic,” she added.
“My sister is a very good student,” Winston explained, “but she’s a little bored with school.”
“Choose any subject,” Richie suggested, “and then come to my Book Room and I’ll give you books about it. I have books about every single thing. You can take them home.”
“Geology?” asked Winifred. “I’m very interested in geology.”
“Done,” Richie said.
The door opened and from the kitchen the maid appeared. She moved about the table, quietly removing the empty soup bowls.
Richie’s father tapped on his water glass to get everyone’s attention. “Before I serve the roast beef,” he said, “I’d like to make a little toast.”
Richie whispered to the Poore children, “My dad loves to make toasts. Sometimes they go on forever.”
“Here’s to our lovely guests,” Mr. Willoughby said. “Winifred and Winston! So good to have you here. Here’s to your companionship with Richie!”
Winifred and Winston smiled politely and prepared to reach for their forks. The roast beef smelled delicious.
“And here’s to my lovely wife!” Tim Willoughby went on. Richie’s mother smiled affectionately at her husband.
“Next, to my adoptive father, Commander Melanoff, who is dining in his own suite tonight, first because of his advanced age. Ninety-seven years old!” Everyone murmured appreciatively. “And second because he is understandably devastated by the recent turn of events in the world of confectionary.”
“What does that mean?” Winston whispered to Richie.
Richie shrugged. He didn’t know.
“And to Other Barnaby,” Tim went on, in a reverent voice. “A moment of silence in his honor.”
“Is that somebody who’s dead?” Winifred whispered to Richie.
“No,” Richie replied. “Just silent. Shhhh.”
They all sat quietly for a moment, even Winston and Winifred, though they had no idea why. (Other Barnaby, Commander Melanoff’s son who, curiously, had the same name as the Willoughby twins, though his Barnaby was followed by Junior, had once been president of the family company. There had even been some discussion of a new candy to be called Junior Mints, after him. But he had decided to become a Trappist monk, instead, and now lived silently in a monastery in western Massachusetts where he was known as Brother Barnaby.)
Finally, still holding his glass up, Tim Willoughby went on. “And in memory of beloved Nanny! Such a wonderful woman, and a fantastic cook!
“And now,” he went on, “I believe I’ll recite one of my father’s poems. There once was a woman named Nanny—”
His wife interrupted. “No, Tim. Not the naughty one,” she said in a stern voice. “Not when we have company.”
Richie, giggling, leaned toward the Poore children. “It’s about her bum,” he whispered.
Tim Willoughby sighed. “Well then, we’ll not bother with the poem. Children? A toast from each of you, please?”
Richie held up his glass. “To my new friends!” he said.
Everyone was looking at Winifred and Winston. Finally, Winifred raised her glass and said, “To my father! May his travels end soon!”
Now only Winston was left. “Uh, to my cat, Radish!” he said, after a moment.
“You have a cat?” Richie said loudly. “I want a cat! Why can’t I have a—”
“Time to dine,” his father said. He began to serve the roast beef.