Uncle Cleans Up by J. P. Martin

Author:J. P. Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448197460
Publisher: RHCP

The difficulty was to find such a creature. There were lots of goats around, but none of them looked broken-hearted. Even Nailrod Hateman’s goat, which had good reason for misery, only looked fierce.

They were quite at a loss, till the cat Goodman, who knows everybody, said he knew of a little tender-hearted goat who grazed secretly on the lawn outside Homeward. He went out, gave her a small pinch and told her to blub, promising to reward her with a bundle of choice hay if she did so. She was soon blubbering away, though her tears were hardly enough to wet the residue thoroughly. However they dampened the bundle, and Blenkinsop thought that would do.

Then they needed a kangle-pot. Blenkinsop had two or three at home, but it was too far to go and fetch them.

“I came across a pot in the library the other day, sir,” said Will Shudder. “It looks to me remarkably like a kangle-pot.”

“Please fetch it, Shudder,” said Uncle.

A kangle-pot is a small red pot with leather handles, and with curious figures engraved on it.

“Oh, that’s a first-class kangle-pot,” said Blenkinsop in a discontented voice when he saw it. He was rather jealous, for kangle-pots are extremely scarce, and yet absolutely necessary for wizard work, and this was a unique specimen.

The next stage of the spell was a hard one.

A scob is a savagely biting fish, eaten only by the Badfort crowd. To get scob’s liver seemed very difficult.

“Won’t the spell work without scob’s liver?” asked Uncle. Blenkinsop laughed bitterly.

“Really, sir, I’m surprised you should ask such a question. It shows how little you know about wizard work. We might manage at a pinch without ginkle-string or red leaves, but never, never, never without scob’s liver.”

“I think I can buy some,” said Goodman. “I’m not certain, but I’m nearly sure.”

“Here’s sixpence,” said Uncle, “and hurry.”

Goodman ran so fast that you could hardly see him at all. He went once more to Mrs Smallweed’s. She’s a good friend of the cat and they often have a gossip together.

“I want a pound of best scob’s liver,” said Goodman, putting the sixpence on the counter.

Mrs Smallwood held up her hands in horror.

“Oh, Mr Goodman,” she said, “you don’t think I sell that, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Goodman. “When I was here a few minutes ago I saw a parcel labelled ‘Badfort’ and smelling of fish. It was scob, now, wasn’t it?”

“Well, of all the cheeky cats! You are a bold-faced thing!” said Mrs Small-weed. “All right, I admit it. I do sell scob occasionally, but you mustn’t tell anybody where you got it. It wouldn’t do my business any good. Promise now.”

“All right, I promise,” said Goodman, and he seized the parcel of scob and rushed back to Homeward.

“Where d’you get it?” asked Uncle, curiously.

“Sorry, sir, I can’t tell you. I promised not to. Hope you don’t mind. It’s proper scob’s liver. I know about fish, and it’s got a sort of bitter taste—”

“Stop talking,” said Uncle, “and hand it over.

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