IN MISS PENELOPE LUMLEY’S DAY, the Epsom Derby was considered the greatest horse race in the world. This opinion continues to be held by many, for the race is still run once a year without fail, and attracts the world’s most fleet-footed Thoroughbred horses and their fearless jockeys, not to mention the many thousands of enthusiastic spectators who come to cheer on their favorites. If someone were to give you a nickel for every cry of “Giddy-yap, giddy-yap!” heard on Derby Day at Epsom, you would have a great many nickels indeed.
(The piggy-bank owning among you should take note: At present, there is no plan to distribute nickels at the Epsom Derby. It is what is called a “hypothetical situation.” Just as a rhetorical question is one that is asked with no expectation of being answered, a hypothetical situation is one that is described with no expectation of it actually happening. Unless there is a change in policy at Epsom, you will have to continue earning your nickels through good, old-fashioned, honest labor: rummaging through the sofa cushions, emptying trouser pockets on wash day, and so forth.)
And speaking of what things are called: It is called the Epsom Derby because it is held in a place called Epsom Downs; it is called the Epsom Derby because it was named in honor of the Earl of Derby. In some places “derby” is pronounced dah-bee, in others, derr-bee, but as a poet once said, a rose is a rose is a rose, and the same goes for derbies. Nowadays you may hear of races called the Kentucky Derr-bee, the Irish Dah-bee, and even the Roller Derby, but all of these are named after the original contest at Epsom.
Fortunately, the rules of horse racing are much simpler than the rules of English pronunciation. The horse that gets to the finish line first is the winner, and that is all there is to it. And although there were no actual horses involved, the Incorrigibles’ mad race to find Bertha before Lord Fredrick had the bird stuffed full of sawdust and mounted in his study could be considered a derby of sorts. Call it the Bertha Derby, if you like, for poor Bertha was the one who stood to lose the most, should Lord Fredrick end up in the winner’s circle.
Penelope might have come up with the name Bertha Derby herself had she had time to think about it, but at the moment her full attention was elsewhere. She clung desperately to Mama Woof’s back as they galloped through the forest of Ashton Place, sniffing and searching for the runaway bird. The four wolves and their passengers raced through dense thickets; they bounded over rushing streams and leaped over fallen trees. There were no reins to hold on to, and the coarse, gray fur kept slipping from her grasp, so she wrapped her arms tightly around Mama Woof’s neck, closed her eyes, and imagined trusty Rainbow beneath her. She thought of how nervous Edith-Anne Pevington had been when she and Rainbow were learning to jump over fences, as was so movingly described in Jump, Rainbow, Jump, and yet how happily everything had turned out in that book (and in every other Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! book, too, come to think of it).
To calm herself even further, Penelope kept up a steady stream of chatter under her breath. “And, it’s neck and neck, neck and neck—Grayfur, ahead by a length—Yelloweyes is coming up on the rear! It’s Grayfur! Yelloweyes! Grayfur! Yelloweyes! They’re coming around the final turn. Yelloweyes is pulling ahead! Grayfur turns on some extra steam—and it’s Grayfur by a snout!”
“Silly Lumawoo,” Cassiopeia yelled. Her trusty wolf steed was galloping just to the right of Mama Woof.
Penelope blushed, for she had not intended to be heard. “Someday we shall have to go to the Epsom Derby,” she shouted over the rushing wind. “I am sure it would be very educational—whoa!”
The wolves had stopped short. The sudden halt was enough to knock Penelope off the back of Mama Woof. The Incorrigible children slid more gracefully off their mounts and began to sniff at the air, while the three smaller wolves ran in tight circles, whimpering and skimming their muzzles along the ground. Mama Woof held perfectly still, head raised, nose twitching. After a moment she tensed and let out a low bark.
“Look,” said Beowulf. “Bertha!”
On the other side of the trees was a grassy clearing. The ostrich stood in the center, nibbling upon a low shrub. Her long neck stretched down to eat; then she lifted her head high and scanned her surroundings with large, wide-set eyes. The moment she saw these new arrivals, she flapped her wings in warning and took a jump backward. The wolves panted and showed their teeth. The one that Cassiopeia had been riding dropped into a crouch and shifted its weight onto its hindquarters, as if to pounce.
Cassiopeia grabbed the beast sternly by one ear and bonked it hard on the nose with her tiny fist. “Remember, woofs! Bertha is friend bird. Not dinner bird.”
Four sets of yellow eyes blinked, as if trying to understand. Could such a message get through to their meat-mad wolf brains? The beasts sniffed and whined, but one by one, they lay down flat on their bellies. If one flinched or looked in any way eager to leap at the giant bird, Mama Woof warned it back into position with a cuff from her massive paw.
Penelope was deeply impressed; straightaway she wanted to reward the wolves for their superb self-control. She patted her pockets, but alas, there were no biscuits left. “It would have been clever to bring wolf treats with us,” she thought, “or at least some bits of cheddar sandwich, which Mama Woof seemed to enjoy. Curious; I found no mention of the use of treats to manage the native wildlife in Robinson Crusoe. Of course, in his case, cannibal treats would have been what was required….” Precisely what cannibal treats would be made of was a disturbing question, and one that Penelope had no opportunity to consider at present, for Bertha looked ready to bolt. Her comical, flat-beaked head swiveled nervously this way and that. As if preparing herself to depart, she raised one clawed, two-toed foot.
Penelope thought quickly. “Alexander, during your work on the bird guidebook, did you happen to learn any ostrich calls?”
The boy nodded and took a step forward. Tucking his chin low on his chest, he hooted a low-pitched foo, foo, foooooo.
At the sound, Bertha spread her flightless wings into a threatening arch and emitted a long, furious hiss.
“Oops.” Alexander turned to Penelope and whispered, “That was mistake. Foo, foo, fooooo is war call. I think I just challenged her to a fight.”
Bertha hissed again. She began prancing boldly and pecked at the air like a boxer taking punches at an imaginary foe. The wolves, still on the ground, let out low growls and inched forward on their bellies. This time Mama Woof did not stop them. Saliva dripped from every sharp-toothed mouth.
“Think, children! Surely there was something in your research about peaceful communication between ostriches. Oh, if only we had some of the admiral’s Savory Pickled Ostrich Treats as an offering of friendship!” Alas, the supply of SPOTs had been left at their campsite during the storm.
“Let me try.” Beowulf moved slowly, so as not to provoke Bertha any further. He cupped his hands to his mouth and took a deep breath.
Penelope heard nothing. “Is he doing it?” she whispered to Cassiopeia.
“Shh! Listen,” Cassiopeia said.
Penelope tried, but the friendly ostrich call was even less audible than Beowulf’s rabbit call, if possible. Bertha, however, had a different reaction. First she looked puzzled. Then she lowered her wings and smoothed her feathers into a more relaxed position. She cocked her head to one side, as if curious about what sort of ostriches these odd-looking, mismatched creatures might be. Then, lifting one spindly leg at a time, she took a tentative step toward them.
Penelope readied the Temporary Ostrich Tether she had fashioned out of the twine that had been left in the trunk, back at the cave. “Do it once more, Beowulf. I need her to come close enough that I can toss this TOT over her head,” she whispered. Beowulf obliged. At the sound of his seemingly noiseless call, Bertha hopped forward. Her tail gave a friendly little shimmy.
“And oopsie, whoopsie, here comes the TOT,” Penelope sang, swinging the loop of twine ’round and ’round above herself like a lasso. It sailed through the air and slipped past Bertha’s beak and down her long, flexible neck so gently that the bird did nothing but blink.
Penelope could not have been more pleased with herself had she roped a wild mustang pony, the way those marvelous American cowboys did (and as Edith-Anne Pevington would learn to do in an as-yet-unwritten volume titled Rainbow Out West, in which she and her trusty pony pal take a trip to the western part of America so that her father, Mr. Pevington, might pursue business opportunities during something called the “Gold Rush.” This volume of the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books would be penned and published many years later, when Penelope was quite grown up. But, unlike a real girl, Edith-Anne Pevington never seemed to get any older; it is one of the advantages of being fictional, or one of the disadvantages, if you prefer to see it that way).
“A job well done, everyone,” Penelope said, “thanks to the superb noses of our trusty wolf steeds, and some fine bird calls by Beowulf—and Alexander,” she added, not wanting to leave him out; after all, he had demonstrated a perfectly effective ostrich call, even if it had not been the exact one needed at the time. “Now, all we need to do is lead Bertha back to Ashton Place and put her in the POE. If the woofs—pardon me, wolves—can help us locate Admiral Faucet along the way, so much the better.”
Penelope was justifiably proud of her success as an outdoorswoman, but the notion that she and the children would be back at Ashton Place in time for a proper dinner, hot baths, and a bedtime book that was not about cannibals made her positively giddy with delight. As was her habit when overexcited, she began to make plans. “The moment we get back to the house, I shall visit Lord Fredrick’s library to look up some facts about cave geology. I propose a brief lesson after dinner; we have much to discuss regarding the difference between stalagmites and stalactites, caverns and grottos, troglobites and…” She vaguely recalled that troglobites had something to do with caves, although for the life of her she could not recall what they were. “Well, other sorts of bites.”
(In fact, troglobites are creatures that live only within caves and nowhere else; they include insects, fish, spiders, and salamanders. Most of us would find their lives dismal and peculiar, but no doubt they would think us quite mad for living out in the blinding sun and the fresh, ever-changing air, with its wobbly breezes.)
The children were intrigued by Penelope’s remarks and began a lively debate about all the different sorts of bites they could think of: chomping bites, nibbling bites, gnawing bites, and vicious, flesh-tearing bites, among others. Even the wolves found this conversation interesting, as you might well imagine, but the discussion was cut short by a hooting, unnatural sound, coming from a far distance. Those that had ears that could perk up and swivel did so; the rest turned their heads to listen.
“Uh-oh,” Cassiopeia said with a frown.
“Oh no.” Beowulf, too, looked unhappy, and began to chew on the strap of his pith helmet.
Again the sound echoed through the trees. It seemed to come from the direction of Ashton Place.
“Time to go,” Alexander agreed. “Tallyho.”
Tallyho! Now Penelope understood: The call came from Lord Fredrick’s hunting horn, and its hooting, leaping cry was the sound that signaled the start of the hunt.
Penelope clutched the end of Bertha’s TOT in one hand and seized Mama Woof’s thick fur with the other. “Lord Fredrick is on his way,” she said, hauling herself onto the wolf’s back. “Which means we must be on our way to the POE, and quickly.”
“Poe! Poe! Nevahwoo!” the children shouted, leaping onto their trusty wolf steeds. Mama Woof gave a stern series of yelps, and the other wolves took up the cry.
“Ahwoooo!”
“Ahwoooo!”
“Ahwoooo!”
“Nevahwoo!” Penelope howled in spite of herself. She waited a moment, to see if she felt silly making such a racket, but she found it rather bracing, frankly. Just to be sure, she did it again. “Nevahwooooo! Now, everyone! To the POE!”
THE MAXIMUM SPEED OF AN ostrich on land is sixty miles per hour. A wolf can run only half that quickly, and a Thoroughbred racehorse (of the type that would run in the Epsom Derby, say) is only somewhat faster than a wolf, with a top speed of forty to forty-five miles per hour. Humans are considerably slower, by comparison. Even if Mrs. Clarke trained and practiced until she was among the fastest sprinters in the world (a purely hypothetical situation, of course, as the dear lady was much too busy with her housekeeping duties to undertake such a grueling training regimen), she would still only be able to run twenty-five miles per hour at the most, and that would be limited to a short distance.
Without question, then, in a race between an ostrich, a wolf, a racehorse, and a middle-aged housekeeper in tip-top shape, the smart money would be on the ostrich. And with Bertha now setting the pace, and the threat posed by Lord Fredrick’s hunting party urging them ever onward, it is fair to say that the wolves of Ashton Place, despite being weighed down by their passengers, ran faster than any wolf had ever run before.
Their mission was urgent, but even so, Penelope found herself enjoying the adventure. The sadness and worry about her parents that had been plaguing her for weeks, the gloomy refrain of “elk, elk, elk”—all of it had been drowned out by the constant surprises and discoveries of this excursion into the woods: the unexpectedly cozy cave, for example, and the unseen visitor who left useful items in the trunk. And, of course, there was the mystery of the sandwiches—who could have known that cheddar and apple was her favorite?
It was a great deal to ponder, but “A busy mind is a cheerful mind,” she thought, recalling one of Agatha Swanburne’s more popular sayings (that is to say, it had been stitched onto more pillows than any other; this may have been because it was one of the wise lady’s shorter sayings as well). “It is not that I have forgotten about my parents, of course not! But I have been so busy with my own adventures, and we have been in more or less constant danger, which is highly distracting. It makes one forget about even very important things…. Why, perhaps that explains it!” she realized. “Perhaps my parents have not really forgotten me, either—perhaps they are simply busy having adventures. Oh my! Perhaps they are in danger, too! That would be dreadful—stop!” she cried, for she had spotted a curious object lying on the earth.
What could it be? It was black in color, curved on top like a dome, and about the size of—well, a human head, to put it plainly. As you know, the idea of cannibals had recently been introduced to Penelope’s mind; her first horrified guess at what this head-sized object might be is far too gruesome to repeat here. However, despite her misgivings, she felt certain they ought to investigate.
The wolves and Bertha obeyed her order to halt, and Mama Woof helpfully circled ’round so Penelope could get a better view. The head-shaped whatsit floated on the surface of a large puddle of uncertain depth, which no doubt had been left by the strong rains of the previous night. “It is a man’s hat,” she concluded with relief. “But whose? It looks a bit like one of those new derby hats that have lately become all the rage.”
(Unbelievably, the word “derby” is also a nickname for a type of snug-fitting, dome-shaped men’s hat invented by a Mr. Bowler, which was just becoming fashionable in Miss Lumley’s day. The bowler hat soon became such a common sight at the Epsom Derby that people began calling it a derby hat. But this is the way it goes with words: Hats turn into horse races and horse races into hats, dah-bees into derr-bees and derr-bees into dah-bees, until no one knows exactly what is meant by what is being said.)
Alexander slid off his wolf and stepped delicately through the murky puddle. He picked up the hat and examined it.
“Not hat. Helmet. Very dirty.” He rubbed the object with his sleeve and held it up to show Penelope. The dark color that she had mistaken for the stiff black felt of a bowler hat was merely a thick coating of mud.
“A pith helmet! Why, that must belong to Admiral Faucet. But where could he be?” Penelope looked around but saw only moss, trees, and some lovely specimens of the common but ruggedly attractive swashbuckler fern, with its long, swordlike fronds and thick stems that were sturdy as peg legs.
Alexander wiggled his feet around in the muck. “Sunk in tar pit,” he declared, gingerly backing out of the puddle.
“No more hup, hup, hup,” Beowulf said mournfully. He and his sister were still astride their wolves, and the beasts whimpered in sympathy.
“Gruesome,” Cassiopeia agreed. “Oh, well.” She did not sound terribly sad, for she had still not forgiven the admiral for trying to take away her plume.
“Blast!” came a voice. “I’m up here!”
They looked up. The admiral hung upside down, suspended from a high branch of the tree. Both of his ankles were tangled in some sort of rope. His face was beet red and, judging from his tone of voice, he was in a foul mood, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.
“Blast that Ashton!” he said. “I’m caught in one of his hunting snares!”
“Tallyho,” warned Alexander. “Uncle Freddy is on his way.”
“Poor Admiral. Soon you will be stuffed.” Cassiopeia sounded rather cheerful at the prospect. “Don’t be sad. I will visit you in Uncle Freddy’s study.”
“You will be easy to draw,” Beowulf added. “I will draw you very nicely.”
The admiral wiggled and kicked, which made him swing wildly, like a piñata in the midst of being beaten. “Cut me down at once! I have no intention of being stuffed, or drawn, or any of it. Say—looks like you caught my Bertha after all. Nicely done, cubs. Bad Bertha, running away! I ought to give you a whipping for all the trouble you’ve caused. But don’t worry; soon you’ll be locked up in the POE, safe and sound.”
Bertha hissed. Penelope was strongly tempted to leave the admiral where he dangled and let Lord Fredrick and the hounds deal with him, but as usual, her kinder nature prevailed. “Perhaps the admiral will agree to sit still for a portrait, Beowulf. In the meantime, we had best cut him down and continue on our way. Lord Fredrick’s party will be here any minute.”
Beowulf shinnied up the tree in which the snare was set and quickly cut the admiral down by gnawing through the rope with his teeth. Admiral Faucet fell to the ground and landed in the puddle with a mighty, messy splash. Splattered with mud from head to toe, he sat up and rubbed his head. Alexander handed him his helmet.
“Ow,” said Beowulf sympathetically.
“Ow, bow wow, woof!” his wolf steed agreed. It was only now that he was right side up that Admiral Faucet noticed the presence of the wolves. His eyes grew wide, and then wider still at the sight of Beowulf sitting astride his wolf as naturally as a child riding a hobbyhorse. “By Jove, will you look at that?” he exclaimed in wonder. “What sort of creatures are those?”
“Woofs,” Cassiopeia explained, patting hers between the ears.
The admiral snorted. “Nonsense. If they were real wolves, they would have eaten you.”
“They are real but unusual wolves.” Penelope could not help boasting a little. “And fast ones, too. We are riding them back to Ashton Place.”
“Fast wolves? Riding wolves?” He climbed to his feet, and his eyes narrowed with greed. “Racing wolves, you mean! What a capital idea!”
The day’s adventures had made Penelope feel rather bold, and she spoke in her sternest and most Swanburnian tone. “I hope you have not forgotten, Admiral, we still have Bertha’s safety to consider. The longer we stand here, the closer Lord Fredrick’s hunting party comes. Luckily our mounts are better suited to the dense forest than a group of men on horseback.” Penelope slid off Mama Woof and gestured for the admiral to get on. “Admiral, you ride Mama Woof. She is the largest and strongest, and will be able to carry you with ease.”
The admiral hemmed and hawed as the giant beast approached. Mama Woof smiled in her fashion, which is to say she pulled her carnivorous lips back over those razor-sharp teeth. She wagged her tail so hard that it whacked the admiral repeatedly on the side of his leg.
“See? She likes you,” Beowulf said, but the admiral seemed unconvinced. His teeth began to chatter in fear.
“But who will carry Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia asked, turning to her governess. “You cannot run like Mrs. Clarke.”
Penelope smiled. “That is true, although with a bit of practice I should hope I would be able to at least keep up with the dear lady.” She glanced at Bertha, who had fixed the admiral with a menacing stare (and to be stared at by an ostrich is no laughing matter, for their eyes are the size of billiard balls; it is why there is so little room left in their heads for brains). “I shall ride Bertha, if she will allow me the privilege. Beowulf, will you call her closer?” He did. Penelope gave a gentle downward tug on the TOT, and the bird knelt low enough for her to climb aboard.
Penelope was pleased with the change. The soft, feathered back of the ostrich was far more comfortable to sit upon than the coarse fur of the wolf had been, and she still held the leash ends of the TOT, which she could easily pretend were pony reins. “Imagine what I shall write to Simon about this!” she thought. “We have gone from watching warblers through a window to barebacked-ostrich riding, all in the course of week. He will surely be impressed—”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
It was the baying of the hounds, now close enough to hear.
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
Boom!
Alexander gazed up at the blue sky that peeked through the leaves of the trees. “Thunder?” he asked dubiously.
“It sounds like your uncle Freddy has gotten off a shot.” The threat of gunfire was enough to make Admiral Faucet clamber onto Mama Woof’s back at last. “The man’s blind as a newborn rat. Whoever taught him to shoot ought to be brought before a judge.”
“Imagine what I shall write to Simon about this!”
His remark made Penelope think of Judge Quinzy, the unsettling friend of Lord Fredrick’s whom she had reason to believe was not a judge at all. But now was not the time to think of that.
“Follow me,” Penelope cried. For effect, she gave a little shake on the leash ends of the TOT, just as if they were a set of reins attached to a pony’s bridle.
Of course, the children could not resist yelling: “Giddy-yap, Bertha!” to get things started. Penelope did not mind this one bit. Nor did Bertha, who took off in a blaze of speed, while behind them the admiral shouted: “Run! Run like the wind, you bloodthirsty beast! Awhoo-hoo, this is capital! Better than the Epsom Derby. Governess—we must talk!”