The Exploits of Moominpappa (Moominpappa's Memoirs) (10 page)

'Call Us Jones, please,' said the Autocrat. 'Hullo, my people good and true! (Blast you, stop that merry-go-round!) Come hither, all! It's time to draw the lottery prizes!'

The merry-go-round and the swings stopped, and everybody came running with their eggs.

'701!' shouted Daddy Jones. 'Who's got number 701?'

'I have,' said Hodgkins.

'Here you are, please,' said the King and handed him an excellent fret-saw of the kind he had always wanted.

I squeezed my eggs in excitement. Every time a new number was called I felt a catch in my throat - but every time it was somebody else's number. Every little black-beetle seemed to have won something or other, but not I.

The Joxter and the Muddler already had a row of prizes in front of them and were busy, because the prizes were mostly chocolate balls, marchpane Hemulens, or spun-sugar roses. And Hodgkins satin the grass holding a heap of practical and uninteresting things in his lap.

Finally Daddy Jones rose and made a little speech:

'My dear people! Dear muddle-headed, fuzzy, and thoughtless subjects! Each of you has won exactly the things that suit him best and that he's earned. In Our centennial wisdom We have hidden the eggs in three kinds of places. Firstly, in the grass where you might stumble on them simply running about or when you are too lazy to look carefully. All those prizes are eatable. Secondly, We have hidden some eggs where they can be found with meticulous and methodical search. Those prizes are useful. And thirdly, We have chosen hiding-places that need a certain amount of imagination to find. And those prizes are of no use whatever. Now, my pig-headed, dear and silly subjects! Who of you have looked in fancy places: in the brooks, in the tree-tops, in the flower-buds, in his own pockets, or in the anthills? Who has found Numbers 67, 14, 890, 999, 223, and 27?'

'I have,' I shouted quite loudly, which made me a little embarrassed for a moment.

And shortly afterwards a smaller voice beside me said: '999!'

'Come hither, poor little Moomin,' said Daddy Jones.

'Behold the utterly useless rewards of the fantastic. Do you like them?'

'Terribly, Your Majesty,' I breathed.

My prizes were enchanting. I think number 27 was the nicest. It was a drawing-room decoration: a small meerschaum tram on a coral pedestal. You could keep safety pins on the front platform. Number 67 was a champagne whisk beset with garnets. The other prizes were a shark's tooth, a preserved smoke ring, and an organ-grinding handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Can you understand my bliss?

'And what about me?' asked the Mymble's daughter who had Number 999.

'Little girl,' said Daddy Jones gravely. 'You have drawn the capital prize. You are entitled to kiss Daddy Jones on the nose.'

The Mymble's daughter shyly climbed on the Autocrat's lap and kissed him on his old autocrat nose. The multitude cheered madly and started eating their prizes.

It was a really lavish, grand and sumptuous garden party. At dusk, coloured lanterns were lighted all over the Garden of Surprises, and everybody played or danced or sang and forgot all about morning.

I was milling around with the others when I perceived a female person who seemed wholly built of round pieces. I went up to her, bowed and asked:

'Excuse me, Madam, do you happen to be the Mymble?'

'Herself!' said the Mymble laughing. 'Tumble and bumble, what a lot I've eaten! Listen, Moomin, weren't you sorry to get such peculiar prizes?'

'I like them,' I replied. 'And think of the honour! Not to mention your daughter who won the main prize.'

'She's a credit to the family,' said the Mymble proudly.

'So you're not angry with her any more?' I asked.

'Angry?' said the Mymble surprised. 'I'm never angry with anybody, at least not for long. I simply haven't the time! Eighteen, nineteen kiddies to wash, put to bed, button up and button down, feed, wipe the nose of, and the Groke knows what. No, my young Moomin, I'm enjoying myself all the time! '

'And what a singular brother you have,' I continued by way of conversation.

'Brother?' said the Mymble.

'Yes, your daughter's maternal uncle,' I explained.

'Who camps beside all the longest words until he's studied them enough, and who sleeps in his long red beard where two white mice lodge free of rent.'

The Mymble started to laugh heartily and said: 'What a daughter I have, indeed! She's been pulling your leg, Moomin! She hasn't any uncle that I know of. Cheerio, I'll have to try the merry-go-round!'

And the Mymble collected as many of her children that her broad lap could hold and mounted one of the red carriages drawn by a dapple grey horse.

'What a remarkable lady,' said the Joxter with sincere admiration.

On the horse sat the Muddler looking quaint.

'Well?' I asked. 'Isn't it fun?'

'Yes thanks, grand,' said the Muddler. 'I'm certainly having a swell time. But this going round and round makes you a bit sick in the end It's a pity!'

'How many rounds have you been on?' I asked.

'Don't know,' replied the Muddler exhaustedly. 'A lot! Such a lot! Oh, here I go again!'

'Time to go home,' said Hodgkins. 'Where's the King?'

But Daddy Jones was busy at the swings, so we left discreetly.

(Except for the Joxter who wasn't able to tear himself from the company of the merry and laughing Mymble.)

In the park we found our Nibling. He had dug himself a hole in the ground and gone to sleep.

'Hullo!' I said. 'You haven't taken out your prizes.'

'Prizes?' said the Nibling and blinked his eyes.

'Your eggs,' said Hodgkins. 'You had a dozen.'

'I ate them,' answered the Nibling shyly. 'I hadn't anything else to do while I waited for you.'

I've often wondered since what the Nibling's prizes would have been and who got them when he didn't ask for them.

Perhaps Daddy Jones saved them for his next centennial garden party.

CHAPTER 6

In which I become a Royal Outlaw Colonist and show remarkable presence of mind when meeting the Ghost of Horror Island.

A
T
dawn the following day a uniformed Hemulen of the Autocrat Guards knocked on the door of our cabin and shouted: 'Telegram! Express telegram for Mr Hodgkins!'

Hodgkins calmly put on his captain's cap and opened the message. It read:

OUR ATTENTION DIRECTED FACT HODGKINS FIRST-CLASS INVENTOR PLEASE PLACE TALENTS IMMEDIATELY AUTOCRAT JONESS SERVICE URGENT

'Excuse me,' said the Muddler, 'but he doesn't seem to be any grand letter-writer. There's a lot of small words and stops missing.'

'That's how express telegrams are,' explained Hodgkins. 'No time to put in all the words. It's a very good telegram.'

'But you said yourself that not a single letter's lost on the way,' said the Nibling.

'Too long to explain now,' said Hodgkins. 'I'll have to see the King.'

'May I put in the small words in your express telegram while you're away?' asked the Muddler.

'Please do,' said Hodgkins. 'But carefully.'

'Are you going to stay with the King?' I asked anxiously.

'Don't know yet,' Hodgkins said abstractedly, polishing his zipper. 'Depends. New tools... tons of nuts and bolts... miles of wire spring... Might improve the house-boat...'

'And what about me?' I said.

'You?' said Hodgkins surprised. 'You'll stay too, of course. As Royal Moominhouse constructor. We'll found a colony. We'll be colonists.'

'M-m,' I replied and went ashore to visit the Mymble. I kicked a stone before me all the way and pretended it was a king, until I suddenly remembered that I was a royalist. God save the King, I said quickly three times to myself. The stone's a colonist, the Groke take him.

'Morning,' said the Mymble's daughter. She was standing at the pump washing her small brothers and sisters. 'Have you swallowed a lemon?'

'We're not explorers any more, we're colonists,' I said.

'Pestilence,' said the Mymble's daughter. 'That's bad. What do colonists do?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'Probably something silly. I think it would be better to follow the Hattifatteners, lone as the desert wind or the mountain eagle.'

'I'm coming with you!' said the Mymble's daughter.

'There's a lot of difference between Hodgkins and you,' I said (markedly).

'Yes, isn't there,' cried the Mymble's daughter happily. 'Mother! Where are you?'

'Here,' said the Mymble and put her head out from under a large leaf. 'How many have you washed?'

'Half,' said her daughter. 'I'll leave it at that. Because this Moomin has asked me to go round the world with him.'

'Well, as a matter of fact...' I managed to say.

But the Mymble said wonderingly: 'You don't say! Then you won't be back for dinner?'

'Oh no, mother,' said the Mymble's daughter. 'Next time we meet I'll be grown-up and the biggest Mymble in the world! When do we start?'

'I suppose colony life isn't so bad after all,' I said faintly. 'We're a Mymble short. So if you'd rather like to become just a colonist...'

She rather liked it

Mymbles like anything.

About two nautical miles north of Daddy Jones's kingdom there lies a moderately big, heart-shaped island. We colonized it.