Читать книгу Well, Really, Mr. Twiddle - Enid blyton - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Mr. Twiddle was feeling very happy. It was almost Christmas time. He had made some really beautiful Christmas cards, and had painted them himself. Most of them had robins and holly on them, because those were the two things he drew the best.

He had a cupboard full of parcels. He was going to give Mrs. Twiddle a lot of nice surprises on Christmas Day. And he had bought twelve circus tickets.

Three days before Christmas the circus was coming to Twiddle’s town. Twiddle loved a circus, especially one with elephants in it, and this one had three.

So he had saved up his money and had bought twelve tickets, two for himself and his wife, and ten for all their grandchildren. What a treat for them, to be sure!

“Shan’t I feel grand going to the circus with ten boys and girls!” said Mr. Twiddle to his wife for about the twentieth time. “Shan’t we laugh at the clowns! And clap the elephants.”

“You’ll enjoy it all more than the children will, I should think,” said Mrs. Twiddle; and she laughed. Sometimes she thought dear old Twiddle had never grown up.

“I’d better write the names and addresses on my Christmas cards this evening and post them,” said Mr. Twiddle, four days before Christmas. “We are asked to post early. Yes, I had better do that. Will you lend me your pen, wife?”

“Oh, dear, have you lost yours again?” said Mrs. Twiddle. “I wonder where it is this time? Yes, I’ll lend you mine, Twiddle, but please don’t do with it what you did last time.”

“Why, what did I do?” asked Twiddle surprised.

“You left it sticking into the vase of flowers,” said Mrs. Twiddle, “and I didn’t find it till I emptied them when they were dead. I suppose you thought you had stuck it into the inkpot.”

“I’ll be careful this time,” said Twiddle. He sat down at the table. He spread out all the circus tickets to look at them once more. How lovely! Twelve of them!

Then he began on his cards. He wrote the names and addresses very neatly indeed. He had done the pictures on post cards, so all he had to do was to write the address on each and stamp it.

“Now don’t you be too long over those cards,” said Mrs. Twiddle, looking at the clock. “I shall want the table for supper in half an hour.”

“I’ll be finished long before that,” said Twiddle, dipping his pen into his wife’s little box of pins, thinking it was the ink. “Dear me—how silly of me!”

Twiddle was longer than he had expected. He had to let the cat in when she came scratching at the door. Then he had to let the dog out. Then no sooner had he sat down again than the dog wanted to come in and the cat decided to go out.

“Those animals want a footman to wait on them,” grumbled Mr. Twiddle. “Lie down, dog!”

“He wants a drink of water,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “His bowl’s empty. He’s thirsty, Twiddle.”

“So am I,” said Twiddle, shaking a blot off his pen. “My glass is empty. But I’ve got no one who will jump up and fill it for me unless I do it myself. So the dog can wait, too. He never does a thing for me. I’m always waiting on him.”

Well, what with one thing and another, Twiddle hadn’t finished by the time Mrs. Twiddle wanted the table. So he had to hurry up at the last, and he stacked all the circus tickets together and piled his Christmas cards in another heap.

“I’ll go out and post the cards while you’re laying the supper, wife,” he said.

“Well, take the dog for a walk,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “He’ll be pleased.”

“I just wait on that dog hand and foot,” grumbled Mr. Twiddle. “And all he does is to lie about where I can keep falling over him.”

“You’d better hurry up, or you’ll miss the post,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “You’ve only got a few minutes.”

Twiddle snatched up the pile of cards and went out. The dog went too. The cat came in as they went out and lay down by the fire. Twiddle almost fell over her.

“Why can’t you look where you’re going?” said Mrs. Twiddle.

“Well, why doesn’t the cat look where she’s going?” asked Twiddle crossly, pulling on his coat. “Come on, dog.”

He went into the darkness. He was soon back. The cat thought it would go out as he came in, and he nearly fell over it again. He glared at the cat’s tail. “I believe she does it on purpose,” he said.

“No,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “It’s just that you are stupid, Twiddle, dear.”

“Stupid!” cried Twiddle, losing his temper. “I like that! I’m the cleverest person in this house, let me tell you. Where would you all be without me? And who thought of taking all our grandchildren to the circus to-morrow, I’d like to know? Why, all you could think of for a Christmas treat for them was——”

“All right, all right, Twiddle,” said Mrs. Twiddle, putting a pie down on the table with a bang. “I agree that you’re the cleverest man in the town. By the way, what did you do with my pen?”

It wasn’t to be found. Oh, dear, Twiddle didn’t feel quite so clever, after all. He sat down to his supper gloomily. Mrs. Twiddle wondered what to say to put him into a good temper again. She looked round, and saw a pile of Christmas cards on the dresser. That was why he was in such a bad temper, perhaps.

“I’m sorry you missed the post, Twiddle,” she said.

Mr. Twiddle stared at her in surprise. “I didn’t miss it,” he said.

“Oh! Then why didn’t you post your Christmas cards?” asked Mrs. Twiddle.

“I did,” said Twiddle, thinking that his wife must be a little mad. “I posted all of them, I heard them go into the pillar-box—slip-slap.”

“How extraordinary!” said Mrs. Twiddle, looking round at the Christmas cards again. “Then why did you bring them back? How did you get them out of the post-box?”

Mr. Twiddle gasped. Yes—there was no doubt about it. Mrs. Twiddle must either be ill or mad. He got up and patted her on the back.

“There, there!” he said. “Do you feel all right, love? Have you got a bad headache? There, there!”

“Don’t ‘there, there’ me like that,” said Mrs. Twiddle, annoyed. “I’m not feeling bad. All I want to know is—why did you go out to post your Christmas cards and come back with them, and yet keep on telling me you heard them go slip-slap down into the box?”

Then poor Twiddle caught sight of the pile of Christmas cards on the dresser. He stared at them. He began to wonder if he had gone mad! Hadn’t he just been to post them—and hadn’t he heard them go into the box—and yet here they were under his very nose! He sat down, feeling quite peculiar.

There was a little silence. Mrs. Twiddle looked at Twiddle sharply. “Twiddle,” she said, “where are the circus tickets?”

“Er—er—I left them in a neat pile on the dresser,” said Twiddle, and he looked for them. But they weren’t there.

“Well, the cat hasn’t eaten them,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “What have you done with them?”

Poor Twiddle gave a sudden groan. “Oh, my, oh, my! I’ve posted them, instead of my Christmas cards! I was in such a hurry—and what with the dog going out and the cat coming in, and——”

“Don’t make excuses,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “For a man who thinks himself the cleverest in this town you’re not very bright to-night, Twiddle. Now, we shan’t be able to go to the circus!”

“Perhaps the postman hasn’t collected the letters yet,” said Twiddle, getting up and fetching his coat. “I’ll go and see. I’ll run all the way.”

The dog went with him, pleased at an extra run. He got under Twiddle’s feet as usual, but Twiddle hadn’t any breath to scold him. He got to the post-box—and oh, cheers, there was the postman, just emptying the box!

“I’ve made a mistake!” panted Twiddle. “I’ve posted some tickets. Ah, yes, there they are! Could you give them me back, please?”

The postman laughed. He picked out the circus tickets and gave them to Twiddle. “Good thing you just caught me,” he said. “It would have been a pity to miss the circus. Good night, sir.”

Twiddle was so pleased. He rushed back home. “I’ve got the tickets,” he said. “We’re all right for the circus!”

“It’s a pity you forgot to take your cards to post them just now,” said Mrs. Twiddle. “Still, never mind, they’ll probably get there on New Year’s Day. Sit down and have a cup of tea now, and finish your meal. Give me the tickets. The next thing you’ll be doing is lighting the kitchen fire with them!”

Twiddle stirred his tea hard. Mrs. Twiddle looked at him.

“So that’s where my pen went!” she said. “You’re stirring your tea with it, Twiddle. Well, well—I’ll give you a spoon to write with next time! What is to be done with you?”

I don’t know. Do you?