Chapter XIII
MURRUM’S REVENGE
What had been happening at home all this while? When the others woke up in the morning they rushed at once to the dolls’ cradle, and seeing the stick of wood lying there wrapped up in the blankets, they had a great shock. It really looked as if something dreadful had happened to Poor Cecco! Perhaps he had died in the night! But when they unrolled the covers and saw it was only a stick of firewood after all, and just another of Poor Cecco’s tricks, they were pretty angry. He had no business to go away and leave them like that, and worse still, he had taken Bulka with him.
Poor Cecco often disappeared; they were used to that. Very likely he had just gone off early to get himself a new tail, to surprise them with. But Bulka was another matter; Bulka had never been known to go away before.
Tubby in particular was very upset. She remembered how she had quarrelled with Bulka the night before, and called him a cry-baby. Now he had gone, and all her tears would not bring him back.
All that day she sat in a corner, and thought of the terrible things that might be happening to him, one worse than another. Even Ida, with all her soothing ways, could not console her. If Bulka ever came back, Tubby thought, she would tell him how much she really loved him. But she couldn’t wait for that; she must write a letter, before she forgot all the things that she wanted to say, and after hunting about for a scrap of paper and a stub of lead-pencil she seated herself in a corner behind the coal-scuttle and began to write.
Dear Bulka:
I love you and I sorry I called you a crybaby and if you come back I will make you icecream and a cake with ammons on and I’ll take you to Tubbyland
Yours loving
That looked very nice, but not quite nice enough, so sticking her tongue out carefully she began again.
Dear Bulka:
I miss you very much and if you come back I will make you a orange cake with icing and ammons on top and I love you and I hope you come back. there is no more nues at present with love from
The third was like this:
Dear Bulka:
I love you more than the sky and more than the blue and when you come back I will make you a cake with orange icing and ammons and silver balls and you are not a crybaby
By the evening Tubby had written thirty-seven letters and had used up nearly all the paper out of the wastepaper basket. She folded the letters very small and sealed then s.w.a.k. Where to post them was the question, but after thinking a little while Tubby decided what to do. She gathered up all the letters in her pinafore, and creeping up very quietly, she posted them all inside the Money-Pig while he wasn’t looking.
Now she had no more paper, but the Easter Chicken settled that. He came running up, dragging a nearly clean paper bag which he had found by the pantry door.
“Here’s paper, Tubby!” he cried. “I’ll find you all the paper you want! I know where there’s a whole lot of it!”
So, greatly cheered, Tubby settled down once more to her letter-writing. So deep was she in her task, clutching the pencil tightly and with a tip of her tongue stuck out, that she never even heard the other toys calling her.
They were going on a picnic.
“Where’s Tubby?” asked Anna, when Tubby didn’t answer.
MURRUM’S REVENGE
Down the path he sped, to the big willow tree by the fence, and, climbing up the trunk, he dropped poor Tubby—plong—right down the dark hole in the middle.
“Now we’ll see,” said Murrum, “who’s master in this house!”
“Sh-sh!” returned Gladys. “She’s behind the coal scuttle, writing letters to Bulka.”
Tubby heard this, but she made no sound, only turned very red and went on with her letter.
“Well, we needn’t bother about her,” said Virginia May. “If she doesn’t want to come she can stay behind.”
And they all set off, with a great clatter and shouting, as usual; all except the Easter Chicken and the Money-Pig, who complained of indigestion and wanted to sleep. No wonder, with all those letters inside him!
The house grew very still and lonely, but Tubby didn’t mind. She sat and wrote; her pencil went scratch-scratch busily on the paper without stopping. She was writing Bulka all the most lovely things she could think of. It is true that her letters were all rather alike, but that didn’t matter; one can’t always be saying something different. She was having a wonderful time. And meanwhile the Easter Chicken ran to and fro, fetching Tubby all the scraps of paper he could find, and as soon as each letter was finished he went over on tiptoe and it in the Money-Pig.
Ding-dong! chimed the clock, twelve times. A beam of moonlight came through the window. It moved slowly, nearer, till it lit up the dark corner behind the coal scuttle where Tubby sat writing. A tear stood on her nose, for at that moment she was wondering where Bulka was, and the thought that something might have happened to him, and that perhaps he would never read the letters she had written, was almost too much for her. But there was no use dwelling on dreadful thoughts, so she rubbed the tear off with her pencil and went on writing more busily than ever.
A shadow moved in the far corner by the door. It was Murrum, just returned through the kitchen window from his prowling. He caught sight of Tubby sitting there in the moonlight, and pricked up his ears.
Murrum was in a very bad temper. Things were going from bad to worse. He had not caught a single mouse in the last three nights. He blamed this entirely on the toys, and for a long time he had been planning revenge. Only this very day he had gone his rounds, sniffing everywhere; there was just one hole in the room, he knew, where a mouse might possibly be, and as luck would have it that hole was exactly in the corner by the fireplace, behind the coal scuttle, where Tubby sat writing her letters.
Murrum’s tail twitched angrily. It was too bad! There she sat, right in his way. “Stop rustling that paper!” he growled. “What are you doing there?”
“I won’t tell you,” said Tubby, and her pencil went straight on—scratch—scratch—on the paper.
“You’re making a noise!” cried Murrum. “How dare you? Get out of my corner at once!”
Tubby made no answer, though the Easter Chicken plucked anxiously at her skirt. Murrum’s tail was twitching to and fro, and his eyes shone like green lamps.
“Will you get out from there?” he hissed.
“No,” said Tubby. “I won’t. So Hinksman!”
This was more than Murrum could endure. He made one furious bound, and seized Tubby then and there by the neck. The Easter Chicken gave a piteous squawk, but there was no one to hear. In two jumps Murrum crossed the floor and was out through the kitchen window, with Tubby in his mouth. Down the path he sped, and across the parsley border to the big willow tree in the corner by the fence, and climbing up the trunk he dropped poor Tubby—plong—right down the dark hole in the middle!
“Now we’ll see,” said Murrum, “who’s master in this house!”
