Alan marched his stowaways back to his pirate ship. Wilf felt as sad as a single sock. He was homesick, he had lost his best slippers, and he was as sorry as a peanut that he had ever come on board Alan’s ship. At least Dot was happy, still chewing on her spade and hitting her bucket against her head cheerily.
But Wilf wasn’t happy. He was pining for Stuart. Stuart would have known how to make him feel better. Stuart would have cheered him up.
Wilf could feel that he was about to cry so he tried to whistle. But it’s very difficult to make your mouth go in an “O” shape when it wants to go in a “waaaaaaaah” shape.
He managed a few notes but they were rather wobbly and forlorn. He hated being a stowaway. He wished he were at home.
Then out of the corner of his eye he noticed something. Someone waving. Something waving. With all fourteen arms. Could it be? It couldn’t be! It was!
Stuart had crawled out of Wilf’s top pocket! Stuart had stowed away on Wilf!
“Oh, Stuart! I’m so pleased to see you!” gasped Wilf. “But you are a very naughty woodlouse,” he added, trying to look frowny and stern. “But I’m so glad you’re a naughty woodlouse, because if you weren’t you wouldn’t be here!”
Stuart nuzzled into Wilf. They did their secret handshake (fourteen times) and Wilf showed Stuart his treasure. He began to feel much, much better. Until . . .
“Ahoy, me hearties, brace the main sail, hoist the Jolly Roger, avast the something or others, fire the cannons!” shouted Alan.
“Sorry,” said Mr. and Mrs. Heartie. “We’re too busy watching The Phantom of the Opera in the theater. Scurvy Steve has organized a special showing.”
“What about everyone else?” asked Alan.
“It’s not a good time right now,” said Dave Everyone, “cuz we’re playing bingo and Cut-throat Cuthbert says you can win a picnic basket.”
“What about the stowaways?” asked Alan.
“It’s just that Tommy the Toothless said he’d teach us how to fold napkins into the shape of a swan,” said Wilf.
“But we’re pirates,” said Alan, “and I’ve spotted another ship in the distance—we’ve got to get those landlubbers, pillage their grog and booty, put it on the poop deck, and shiver me timbers.”
Some of the pirates danced past, doing the conga.
Alan turned to Nigel. “Say something.”
“Hmm?” said Nigel. “Like what?”
Alan sighed. “You know, you know—brace the main sail, grog, booty, shiver me timbers—all that stuff,” said Alan impatiently.
“Lace the chain mail?” asked Nigel.
“Brace the main sail.”
“Chase the main whale?” asked Nigel.
“Brace the main sail,” repeated Alan.
“Race the plane tail?” asked Nigel.
Before Alan could say a very naughty swear word, they caught up with the ship because it turned out that Alan had been looking through his telescope the wrong way, so in fact it wasn’t
a tiny ship, far away,
it was an
“Yikes,” said Alan. “Fire the cannons!”
“Hire the salmons?” said Nigel.
“Sink the ship!” commanded Alan.
“Shrink the chip?” said Nigel.
“Shoot the parrot!” said Alan, jumping up and down with rage.
“Toot the carrot?” said Nigel, perplexed. “It would be easier to repeat everything you said if you ever said anything that made any sense,” he complained.
“Drat!” shouted Alan indignantly.
“Sprat?” said Nigel. “Don’t mind if I do. I’m a bit partial to fish. Although I can’t do shellfish,” he added. “I have an intolerance.”
Alan sighed and went over to one of the cannons and lit it.
There was a fizzing. And then a pause. And then an enormous . . .
And then a plink as the cannonball hit the huge aircraft carrier and plopped into the water.
Plink plink plink plink plink.
They hit the aircraft carrier and plopped one by one into the water.
Alan turned and looked at Wilf.
“Did you just laugh?” said Alan.
“No,” said Wilf.
“You smiled though,” said Alan.
“No,” said Wilf truthfully.
“Your eyes are smiling,” said Alan.
“I think I just have smiley eyes. They do it on their own,” explained Wilf.
“Right. That’s it. You are walking the plank!” said Alan.
WHAT?? Walking the plank??
Wilf’s eyeballs went all hot and swively, he gulped a big gulp, and his knees tried to go the wrong way.
If he walked the plank he would fall in the water and he hated falling in water and getting his face wet. And he was scared a big squashy squid would eat him up in a very squishy way.
What was he going to do? He wanted to knit the word HELP and hang it from the mast.
But he didn’t have time for knitting. And he didn’t have needles for knitting. And he didn’t have wool for knitting. Knitting was out of the question. So instead he had a great big old worry and then a great big think and he thought so hard his brain got a stitch. And then he had an idea.
He got out his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet.
said “Break down the thing you are worried about into little steps.”
Right. So. He had to take one step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank—this wasn’t really helping much—then he had to faaaaaallllll, and faaaaaalllll some more, keep faaaaaaaallllling, keep faaaaaaallllling, keep faaaaaaaallllling—it was not helping at all—down into the water right into the flobberdy slobberdy jaws of a squishy squid who would suck him up, squelch squeeeelchhhhhhhhh . . .
STOP! Thinking about it was making him feel much worse. Best to just get on with it.
Wilf kissed Stuart good-bye and popped him into Dot’s bucket. Then he took the goldfish bowl from the treasure chest, which he popped onto his head (so he wouldn’t get his face wet). He also got from his backpack a can of sardines (from the picnic) to offer to the squishy squid to eat instead of himself and a can opener to help the squishy squid open the sardines.
And with that, Wilf plunged into the water and floated . . .
He landed on something hard. Not a squashy squid. Maybe a squid wearing a hard hat?
Wilf listened out for any squelchy squiddy noises.
He heard a muffled shout.
“Oi, get off my submarine!” the muffled shout said.
Then suddenly Wilf felt himself going . . .
splash-cough-phatooee.
He had plunged into the air. In an upward plungy sort of way. There’s probably a word for that.
Wilf sat up. He appeared to be sitting on a submarine. There were some squeaky creaky sounds coming from inside followed by some sweary sounds.
“Dash it all to hell. The damned hatch has stuck closed. Damn and blast it,” said the voice. “Do you think you could help open it up?” it asked.
“Well, I’ll have a go,” said Wilf. He got out his can opener and very carefully went around the whole of the top of the round hatch of the submarine and flipped it open.
As it opened, a very cross face with a big mustache emerged.
“What do you think you’re doing, you blithering nincompoop?” said the cross face.
“Well, I was dying and you interrupted me,” explained Wilf.
“Well, don’t die all over my submarine. I’ve just had it washed.” said the cross face.
“Who are you?” asked Wilf.
“Captain Bailey at your service. All present and correct.” He saluted and poked himself in the eye. “Ouch. Dash it. Never have gotten the hang of that.”
Wilf saluted back.
“Well, come in if you’re coming in. Don’t want you-know-who seeing,” said Captain Bailey.
Wilf climbed into the submarine and Captain Bailey closed the hatch and the submarine dived under the water in a very creaky drippy groany way.
“What are you doing down here?” said Wilf.
“Been down here for seventy-five years. Not seen much action for quite some time, but I’m ready for ’em. Crafty bunch they are.”
“Who?” asked Wilf.
“It’s probably best if we speak in code. In case they’re listening,” said Captain Bailey, and he tapped his nose twice.
“Was that the code?” asked Wilf. “The nose tapping?”
“No, no, that was just—you know—a nod and a wink.”
“The code is nodding and winking?” asked Wilf.
“Dash it all to hell, boy, no! Pay attention. Right. So instead of saying ‘war,’ we’ll say ‘tiddlywinks.’ Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wilf.
“And instead of saying ‘Germans,’ we’ll say ‘chinchillas.’”
“Righty ho,” said Wilf.
“So the English are playing tiddlywinks with the chinchillas and—hang on a minute,” said Captain Bailey. “You’re not one of them, are you? You’re not . . .” his eyes widened in horror, “a chinchilla?”
“No, sir,” said Wilf.
“Ah, but that’s what you would say. If you were a chinchilla in disguise. Wouldn’t put it past them, hairy little blighters.”
Wilf was getting a little bit confused.
“I promise I’m not a chinchilla,” said Wilf. “But even if I was a chinchilla, the English aren’t playing tiddlywinks with the chinchillas anymore.”
“Balderdash!” said Captain Bailey. And then, “Excuse my French.”
“No, no, I promise. They haven’t played tiddlywinks for years,” said Wilf.
“What?” said Captain Bailey in a high-pitched shriek. “Did the chinchillas win? Did they take Poland and then take over the world?”
“No,” said Wilf. “It’s all fine. It’s over. We’re all friends. In fact, my cousin is a German, I mean a chinchilla.”
Captain Bailey sat down and had a very long think.
“Well, crikey o’ blimey, I don’t know what to say,” said Captain Bailey. “And I don’t know what to do,” he added sadly. “This game of tiddlywinks has been my life. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
Captain Bailey began to cry and then began to blow his nose in a loud trumpety way. “You know, one Christmas, me and the chinchillas, we put our tiddlywinks aside and we had a jolly good game of, well, in actual fact, it was tiddlywinks.”
“Please don’t be sad,” said Wilf.
Then an idea began to form in Wilf’s mind.
“Because there’s something much worse than a chinchilla to deal with now,” said Wilf.
Captain Bailey looked up, mid-trumpet.
“Oh yes,” said Wilf. “And this time, it’s bigger than tiddlywinks.”
“What do you mean, boy? Come on, spit it out!” said Captain Bailey excitedly.
“Well, Alan . . .” started Wilf.
“In code, in code!”
“Sorry. There’s this man called . . .”
“Delilah?” offered Captain Bailey.
“If you like. And he wants to . . . crochet a tea cozy,” said Wilf, giving a meaningful wink.
Captain Bailey gasped. “No!” he said. “He wouldn’t!”
“I’m afraid he would, sir,” said Wilf.
“That’s dreadful!” said Captain Bailey.
“I know!”
“He must be stopped!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Just so I know,” said Captain Bailey, “what are we actually talking about?”
“He wants to destroy the world,” explained Wilf.
“Oh he does, does he?” bellowed Captain Bailey furiously. “Well, he hasn’t counted on Captain Bailey and . . . and . . . what’s your name, boy?”
“Wilf,” said Wilf.
“Wilf, is it?” said Captain Bailey. “Then I shall call you . . .” Captain Bailey scratched his chin, trying to think of a good name.
“How about Wilf?” suggested Wilf.
“Could I? It would be so much easier,” said Captain Bailey with relief.
“Come on, Captain Bailey!” urged Wilf. “After that pirate ship!”