Читать книгу Don't Be Silly, Mr. Twiddle! - Enid blyton - Страница 4

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Mrs. Twiddle was very busy. She had the whole table spread with all kinds of things—needles, cottons, scissors, bits of silk, flowers, and goodness knows what else!

Mr. Twiddle looked at her. He badly wanted her to help him with the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, but he didn’t like to ask her, because her mouth was full of pins.

“I’m always afraid she’ll swallow the pins when she has so many between her lips like that,” thought Twiddle. “I wonder what she’s doing. She has got a mess out on the table.”

He waited until Mrs. Twiddle had taken the pins out of her mouth and used them. Then he spoke to her.

“What are you doing with all that mess on the table, wife?” he said.

“Gracious, can’t you see!” said Mrs. Twiddle. “I’m putting a bit of extra trimming on my best hat. Look, it’s got violets on one side, and I’m going to put these little pink roses on the other. Don’t you think they’ll look nice?”

“Well, it makes the hat look rather like a garden,” said Mr. Twiddle. “How long will you be?”

“I’ve nearly finished,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “Then I’ll help you with that puzzle. I can see you’re longing for a bit of help. Just go and get me that shirt of yours over there that I’ve washed for you. I’ll sew the top button on whilst I think of it.”

Twiddle fetched his blue shirt. Mrs. Twiddle quickly sewed on a button, then fluffed out the flowers on her best hat. She looked at it with pleasure.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Now, Twiddle dear, you can do something for me whilst I clear up this mess, then I’ll help you.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Twiddle. “Not chop wood or anything like that, I hope.”

“No,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “Just take this shirt out and hang it on the line to dry, and take my best hat and put it into the hat-box under my bed. By the time you’ve done that for me I’ll be ready.”

“Right,” said Twiddle. He picked up the shirt and the hat and went out of the room.

Well, you know old Twiddle, don’t you? So you can guess what he did! Yes, you’re right—he took the hat out into the garden and pegged it carefully up on the line, and he took his blue shirt and tucked it into the hat-box under the bed!

Then he went downstairs and beamed at his wife. She had cleared up the mess, and was ready to do the puzzle with him.

“Now look,” she said, “here’s the first thing we have to guess—the name of somebody silly. Seven letters it has to be, Twiddle.”

“I know who that is!” said Twiddle, at once. “It must be old Meddle. He’s silly enough.”

“No—Meddle has six letters, not seven in his name,” said his wife. “Guess again. Can it be Brer Rabbit—no, that’s ten letters. Dear me, I can’t think of the right answer at all. Let’s guess the next bit.”

As they were in the middle of the puzzle there came a knock at the door and Mrs. Jones put her head in and smiled at them.

“Mrs. Twiddle, I’m off to tea with Sally Simple. She told me to bring you with me if you’d like to come.”

“Oh yes, I would!” said Mrs. Twiddle, jumping up at once. “I’ll just get my hat. I’ve finished trimming it and it looks lovely. I shall so like wearing it to Sally’s.”

She rushed upstairs. She put on her best coat, found her best gloves, and then pulled out the hat-box from under the bed.

She opened it—and how she stared when she saw Twiddle’s blue shirt in there. “Whatever’s this in my hat-box?” she cried, and she pulled out the shirt. “Good gracious, Twiddle’s mad! He’s put his damp shirt into my hat-box. Oh, if he’s squashed it on top of my best hat I’ll beat him with the rolling-pin, really I will!”

She looked under the shirt, but there was no hat there. She looked on her dressing-table. No hat there. She looked on the top shelf of her wardrobe, where she kept her other hats. No—her best hat wasn’t there either.

She ran downstairs to Twiddle and Mrs. Jones. “Twiddle! What did you do with my best hat? It isn’t in the hat-box—and you’ve put your shirt there! You really are a silly man.”

“But surely I put your hat there!” said Twiddle in alarm. “Yes, surely I did. You told me to. Are you sure I put the shirt there? You told me to hang it on the line. I feel sure I pegged it out in the garden.”

“Well, come to the window, and we’ll see if you pegged the shirt out there!” cried Mrs. Twiddle, in a temper. “Didn’t I just tell you it was in the hat-box! Twiddle, where did you put my best hat?”

Twiddle went to the window and looked out into the garden, quite expecting to see his blue shirt hanging on the line, in spite of what Mrs. Twiddle said. But you know what he saw, don’t you? Mrs. Twiddle’s best hat hanging there, being blown about in the wind!

He stared at it in horror. Oh dear, oh dear, whatever in the world would Mrs. Twiddle say? Mrs. Twiddle saw the look of dismay on his face, and she looked out of the window, too. When she saw her lovely best hat hanging on the line she gave a scream of horror.

“Oh, you bad man! Oh, you dreadfully silly creature! You hung my best hat on the line and put your shirt in my hat-box! Twiddle, you want your ears boxed! You really do! I’ve a good mind to do it!”

Twiddle hurried out into the garden before Mrs. Twiddle could do what she said. His face was red. Why did he do things like this? Dear, dear, his wife would never forgive him for pegging out her best hat like that!

He took it in, and Mrs. Twiddle snatched it from him to see if the pegs had put it out of shape. But they hadn’t. She threw his blue shirt to Twiddle.

“Do what you like with it!” she cried crossly. “It’s no good my telling you to peg it on the line. Put it into the coal-scuttle if you like—or inside the oven, where you once put the clock! Really, you are the silliest fellow in the world!”

Poor Twiddle said nothing. He felt most uncomfortable, because Mrs. Jones was laughing. He picked up the newspaper to finish the puzzle by himself. Mrs. Twiddle stood in front of the looking-glass and pinned on her best hat.

“It looks simply beautiful, dear,” said Mrs. Jones, admiringly. “Really, it does!”

Mrs. Twiddle felt pleased. She wasn’t in a temper any more. She tapped Twiddle on the shoulder.

“There’s a new ginger-cake for your tea in the larder,” she said. “Finish your puzzle, and then put the kettle on to boil.”

“I wish I could guess this bit,” sighed Twiddle. “The name of somebody silly—with seven letters!”

“I know, I know!” cried Mrs. Twiddle, and she gave a little giggle.

“Who is it?” asked Twiddle.

You know what she answered, don’t you! Yes, it was Mr. Twiddle!