The Magic Pudding, Norman Lindsay [beach read txt] 📗

“It’s worse than kerosene to boose, It’s worse than ginger hair. It’s worse than anythin’ to lose A Puddin’ rich and rare.”

Bunyip Bluegum reproved this despondency, saying “Come, come, this is no time for giving way to despair. Let us, rather, by the fortitude of our bearing prove ourselves superior to this misfortune and, with the energy of justly enraged men, pursue these malefactors, who have so richly deserved our vengeance. Arise!

“The grass is green, the day is fair, The dandelions abound. Is this a time for sad despair And sitting on the ground?

“Let gloom give way to angry glare, Let weak despair be drowned, Let vengeance in its rage declare Our Puddin’ must be found.

“Our Puddin’ in some darksome lair In iron chains is bound, While puddin’-snatchers on him fare, And eat him by the pound.

“Then let’s resolve to do and dare. Let teeth with rage be ground. Let voices to the heavens declare Our Puddin’ MUST be found.”

“Bravely spoken,” said Bill, immediately recovering from despair. “Those gallant words have fired our blood,” said Sam, and they both shook hands with Bunyip, to show that they were now prepared to follow the call of vengeance.

In order to investigate this dastardly outrage,” said Bunyip, “we must become detectives, and find a clue. We must find somebody who has seen a singed possum. Once traced to their lair, mother-wit will suggest some means of rescuing our Puddin’.”

They set off at once, and, after a brisk walk, came to a small house with a signboard on it saying, “Henderson Hedgehog, Horticulturist.” Henderson himself was in the garden, horticulturing a cabbage, and they asked him if he had chanced to see a singed possum that morning. “What’s that? What, what?” said Henderson Hedgehog, and when they had repeated the question, he said, ” You must speak up, I’m a trifle deaf.”

“Have you seen a singed possum?” shouted Bill. “I can’t hear you,” said Henderson.

“Have you seen a SINGED POSSUM?” roared Bill.

“To be sure,” said Henderson, “but the turnips are backward.”

“Turnips be stewed,” yelled Bill in such a tremendous voice that he blew his own hat off. “HAVE YOU SEEN A SINGED POSSUM?”

“Good season for wattle blossom,” said Henderson. “Well, yes, but a very poor season for carrots.”

“A man might as well talk to a carrot as try an’ get sense out of this runt of a feller,” said Bill, disgusted. “Come an’ see if we can’t find someone that it won’t bust a man’s vocal cords gettin’ information out of.”

They left Henderson to his horticulturing and walked on till they met a Parrot who was a Swagman, or a Swagman who was a Parrot. He must have been one or the other, if not both, for he had a bag and a swag, and a beak and a billy, and a thundering bad temper into the bargain, for the moment Bill asked him if he had met a singed possum he shouted back—

” Me eat a singed possum! I wouldn’t eat a possum if he was singed, roasted, boiled, or fried.”

” Not ett—met,” shouted Bill. “I said, met a singed possum.”

“Why can’t yer speak plainly, then,” said the Parrot. “Have you got a fill of tobacco on yer?”

He took out his pipe and scowled at Bill.

“Here you are,” said Bill. “Cut a fill an’ answer the question.”

” All in good time,” said the Parrot, and he added to Sam, “You got any tobacco?”

Sam handed him a fill, and he put it in his pocket. “You ain’t got any tobacco,” he said scornfully to Bunyip Bluegum. “I can see that at a glance. You’re one of the non-smoking sort, all fur and feathers.”

“Here,” said Bill angrily, “Enough o’ this beatin’ about the bush. Answer the question.”

“Don’t be impatient,” said the Parrot. “Have you got a bit o’ tea an’ sugar on yer?”

“Here’s yer tea an’ sugar,” said Bill, handing a little of each out of the bag. “An that’s the last thing you get. Now will you answer the question?”

“Wot question,” asked the Parrot.

“Have yer seen a singed possum?” roared Bill.

“No, I haven’t,” said the Parrot, and he actually had the insolence to laugh in Bill’s face.

“Of all the swivel-eyed, up-jumped, cross-grained, sons of a cock-eyed tinker,” exclaimed Bill, boiling with rage. “If punching parrots on the beak,wasn’t too painful for pleasure, I’d land you a sockdolager on the muzzle that ud lay you out till Christmas. Come on, mates,” he added, “it’s no use wastin’ time over this low-down, hook-nosed, tobacco-grabber. “And leaving the evil-minded Parrot to pursue his evil-minded way, they hurried off in search of information.

The next person they spied was a Bandicoot carrying a watermelon. At a first glance you would have thought it was merely a watermelon walking by itself, but a second glance would have shown you that the walking was being done by a small pair of legs attached to the watermelon, and a third glance would have disclosed that the legs were attached to a Bandicoot.

They shouted, “Hi, you with the melon!” to attract his attention, and set off running after him, and the Bandicoot, being naturally of a terrified disposition, ran for all he was worth. He wasn’t worth much as a runner, owing to the weight of the watermelon, and they caught him up half-way across the field.

Conceiving that his hour had come, the Bandicoot gave a shrill squeak of terror and fell on his knees.

“Take me watermelon,” he gasped, “but spare me life.”

“Stuff an’ nonsense,” said Bill. “We don’t want your life. What we want is some information. Have you seen a singed possum about this morning?”

“Singed possums, sir, yes sir, certainly sir,” gasped the Bandicoot, trembling violently.

“What, exclaimed Bill, “Do yer mean to say you have seen a singed possum?”

“Singed possums, sir, yes sir,” gulped the Bandicoot. “Very plentiful, sir, this time of the year, sir, owing to the bush fires, sir.”

“Rubbish,” roared Bill. “I don’t believe he’s seen a singed possum at all.”

“No, sir,” quavered the Bandicoot. “Certainly not, sir. Wouldn’t think of seeing singed possums if there was any objection, sir.”

“You’re a poltroon,” shouted Bill. “You’re a slaverin’, quaverin’, melon-carryin’ nincompoop. There’s no more chance of getting information out of you than out of a terrified Turnip.”

Leaving the Bandicoot to pursue his quavering, melon-humping existence, they set off again, Bill giving way to some very despondent expressions.

“As far as I can see,” he said, “if we can’t find somethin’ better than stone-deaf hedgehogs, peevish parrots and funkin’ bandicoots we may as well give way to despair.”

Bunyip Bluegum was forced to exert his finest oratory to inspire them to another frame of mind. “Let it never be said,” he exclaimed, “that the unconquerable hearts of puddin’-owners quailed before a parrot, a hedgehog, or a bandicoot.

“Let hedgehogs deaf go delve and dig, Immune from loudest howl, Let bandicoots lump melons big, Let peevish parrots prowl.

“Shall puddin’-owners bow the head At such affronts as these? No, no! March on, by anger led, Our Puddin’ to release.

“Let courage high resolve inflame Our captive Pud to free; Our banner wave, our words proclaim We march to victory!”

“Bravely sung,” exclaimed Bill, grasping Bunyip Bluegum by the hand, and they proceeded with expressions of the greatest courage and determination.

As a reward for this renewed activity, they got some useful information from a Rooster who was standing at his front gate looking up and down the road, and wishing to heaven that somebody would come along for him to talk to. They got, in fact, a good deal more information than they asked for, for the Rooster was one of those fine upstanding, bumptious skites who love to talk all day, in the heartiest manner, to total strangers while their wives do the washing.

“Singed possum,” he exclaimed, when they had put the usual question to him. “Now, what an extraordinary thing that you should come along and ask me that question. What an astounding and incredible thing that you should actually use the word `singed’ in connection with the word `possum.’ Though mind you, the word I had in my mind was not ‘singed,’ but `burning.’ And not `possum’ but `feathers.’ Now, I’ll tell you why. Only this morning, as I was standing here, I said to myself “somebody’s been burning feathers.” I called out at once to the wife—fine woman, the wife, you’ll meet her presently—“Have you been burning feathers?” “No” says she. “Well,” said I, “If you haven’t been burning feathers, somebody else has.” At the very moment that I’m repeating the word “feathers” and “burning” you come along and repeat the words “singed” and “possum.” Instantly I call to mind that at the identical moment that I smelt something burning, I saw a possum passing this very gate, though whether he happened to be singed or not I didn’t inquire.”

“Which way did he go?” inquired Bill excitedly.

“Now, let me see,” said the Rooster. “He went down the road, turned to the right, gave a jump and a howl, and set off in the direction of Watkin Wombat’s summer residence.”

“The very man we’re after,” shouted Bill, and bolted off down the road, followed by the others, without taking any notice of the Rooster’s request to wait a minute and be introduced to the wife.

“His wife may be all right,” said Bill as they ran, “but what I say is, blow meetin’ a bloomin’ old Rooster’s wife when you haven’t got a year to waste listenin’ to a bloomin’ old Rooster.”

They followed the Rooster’s directions with the utmost rapidity, and came to a large hollow tree with a door in the side and a noticeboard nailed up which said, “Watkin Wombat, Esq., Summer Residence.”

The door was locked, but it was clear that the puddin’-thieves were inside, because they heard the Possum say peevishly, “You’re eating too much, and here’s me, most severely singed, not getting sufficient,” and the Wombat was heard to say “What you want is soap,” but the Possum said angrily, “What I need is immense quantities of puddin’.”

The avengers drew aside to hold a consultation.

” What’s to be done?” said Bill. ” It’s no use knockin’, because they’d look through the keyhole and refuse to come out, and, not bein’ burglars, we can’t bust the door in. It seems to me that there’s nothin’ for it but to give way to despair.”

“Never give way to despair while whiskers can be made from dry grass,” said Bunyip Bluegum, and suiting the action to the word, he swiftly made a pair of fine moustaches out of dried grass and stuck them on with wattle gum. “Now, lend me your hat,” he said to Bill, and taking the hat he turned up the brim, dented in the top, and put it on. “The bag is also required,” he said to Sam, and taking that in his hand and turning his coat inside out, he stood before them completely disguised.

“You two,” he said, “must remain in hiding behind the tree. You will hear me knock, accost the ruffians and hold them in conversation. The moment you hear me exclaim loudly, “Hey, Presto! Pots and Pans,” you will dart out and engage the villains at fisticuffs. The rest leave to me.”

Waiting till the others were hidden behind the tree, Bunyip rapped smartly on the door which opened presently, and the Wombat put his head out cautiously.

“Have I the extreme pleasure of addressing Watkin Wombat, Esq.?” inquired Bunyip Bluegum, with a bow.

Of course, seeing a perfect stranger at the door, the Wombat had no suspicions, and said at once. “Such is the name of him you see before you.”

“I have called to see you,” said Bunyip,