Books: The Magic Pudding
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Norman Lindsay >> The Magic Pudding
There was a great uproar over this very illegal act. The Judge
was enraged at losing his port, and the Mayor was filled with
horror because Bill wiped his face on the mayoral hat, Sam had to
feign amazement at being called a liar, and the puddin'-thieves
kept shouting "Time, time; we can't stand here all day."
In desperation, Bill bawled at the top of his voice: "I call on
Detective Bluegum to restore order in the Court."
Bunyip ran into the witness-box and, with a ready wit, shouted
I have dreadful news to impart to this honourable Court."
All eyes, of course, turned on Bunyip, who, raising his hand with
an impressive gesture, said in thrilling tones: "From information
received, it has been discovered that the Puddin' was poisoned at
ten-thirty this morning."
This news restored order at once. The Judge turned pale as lard,
and the Usher, having a darker complexion, turned as pale as soap.
The Puddin' couldn't turn pale, so he let out a howl of terror.
"Poisoned," said the Usher, feebly. "How, how?"
"Poisoned," said the Judge, feeling his stomach with trembling
hands. "Until this moment I was under the delusion that a
somewhat unpleasant sensation of being, as it were, distended,
was merely due to having eaten seven slices. But if--"
"If," said the Usher, in a quavering voice--
"If you take a poisoned Puddin'
And that poisoned Puddin' chew,
The sensations that you suffer
I should rather say were due
To the poison in the Puddin'
In the act of Poisoning You.
And I think the fact suffices
Through this dreadfulest of crimes,
As you've eaten seven slices
You've been poisoned seven times."
"It was your idea having it up on the bench," said the Judge,
angrily, to the Usher. "Now,
"If what you say is true,
That idea you'll sadly rue,
The poison I have eaten is entirely due to you.
It's by taking your advice
That I've had my seventh slice,
So I'll tell you what I'll do
You unmitigated Jew,
As a trifling satisfaction,
Why, I'll beat you black and blue,"
and with that he hit the Usher a smart crack on the head with a
port bottle.
"Don't strike a poisoned man," shouted the Usher; but the Judge
went on smacking and cracking him with the bottle, singing--
"The emotion of pity
Need never be sought
In a Judge who's been poisoned
By Puddin' and Port."
In desperation, the Usher leapt off the Bench, and landed head
first in the dock, where he stuck like a sardine.
"Too bad, too bad," shouted the puddin'-thieves. "Crowding
in here where there's only room for two." Before they could get
rid of the Usher, the Judge bounded over the bench and commenced
whacking them with the bottle, singing--
"As I find great satisfaction
Hitting anybody who
Can offer that distraction,
Why, I'll have a go at you."
and he went on bounding and whacking away with the bottle,
while the puddin'-thieves kept roaring, and the Usher kept
screaming. The uproar was deafening.
"Just listen to it," said Bill, in despair. "I'd like to know
how on earth we are going to finish the case with all this
umptydoodle rumpus going on."
"Why," said Bunyip, "the simpler course is not to finish the case
at all."
"Solved, as usual," said Bill and, seizing the Puddin' from the
bench, he dashed out of Court, followed by Sam, Ben and Bunyip
Bluegum.
As they ran, they could hear the Judge still whacking away at
everybody, including the Mayor, and the Constable, whose screams
were piercing. "Indeed," said Bunyip--
"I rather think they'll rather rue
The haste with which they sought to sue
Us in the Court of Tooraloo.
For, mark how just is Fate!
"The whole benighted, blooming crew,
The Puddin'-thieves, the Usher too,
Are being beaten black and blue
With bottles on the pate.
"I rather think they will eschew,
In future, Puddin'-owners who
Pass through the simple rural view
About the town of Tooraloo."
"And now," said Bill, when they had run a mile or two beyond the
town, "and now for some brilliant plan, swiftly conceived, which
will put a stop to this Puddin'-snatchin' business for ever. For
the point is," continued Bill, lowering his voice, "here we are
pretty close up to the end of the book, and something will have to
be done in a Tremendous Hurry, or else we'll be cut off short by
the cover."
"The solution is perfectly simple," said Bunyip. "We have merely
to stop wandering along the road, and the story will stop
wandering through the book. This, too, will baffle the puddin'
thieves, for while we wander along the road, our Puddin' is
exposed to the covetous glances of every passing puddin'-snatcher.
Let us, then, remove to some safe, secluded spot and settle down to
a life of gaiety, dance and song, where no puddin'-thief will dare
to show a sacrilegious head. Let us, in fact, build a house in a
tree. For, mark the advantages of such a habitation--
"Up on high
No neighbours pry
In at the window,
On the sly.
"Up on high
Bricks you shy
At bores and bailiffs
Passing by.
"Up in a tree
You're always free
From bores and bailiffs,
You'll agree.
"Up in the leaves
One never grieves
Over the pranks
Of puddin'-thieves.
"If you would be
Gay and free,
Take my tip and
Live in a tree."
"We will, we will," shouted the Puddin'-owners; but the Puddin'
said sourly: "This is all very well, all this high falutin'.
But what about the dreadful news of me being poisoned at ten-thirty
this morning?"
"You ain't poisoned, Albert," said Bill. "That was only a mere
ruse de guerre, as they say in the noosepapers."
A what?" demanded the Puddin', suspiciously.
"Let words be sufficient, without explanation," said Bill,
severely. "And as we haven't time to waste talkin' philosophy
to a Puddin', why, into the bag he goes, or we'll never get the
story finished."
So Puddin' was bundled into the bag, and Bill said, hurriedly
"Brilliant as our friend Bunyip has proved himself with his ready
wit, it remains for old Bill to suggest the brightest idea of all.
Here is our friend Ben, a market gardener of the finest description.
Very well. Why not build our house in his market garden. The
advantages are obvious. Vegetables free of charge the whole year
round, and fruit in season. Eggs to be had for the askin', and a
fine, simple, honest feller like Ben, to chat to of an evening.
What could be more delightful?"
Ben looked very grave at this proposal, and began: "I very much
doubt whether there will be enough bed clothes for four people,
let alone the carrots are very nervous of strangers--" when Bill
cut him short with a hearty clap on the back.
"Say no more," said Bill, handsomely. "Rough, good-humoured
fellers like us don't need apologies, or any social fal-lals at
all. We'll take you as we find you. Without more ado, we shall
build a house in your market garden."
And, without more ado, they did.
The picture opposite saves the trouble of explaining how they
built it, and what a splendid house it is. In order that the
Puddin' might have plenty of exercise, they made him a little
Puddin' paddock, whence he can shout rude remarks to the people
passing by; a habit, I grieve to state, he is very prone to.
Of course, at night they pull up the ladder in case a stray
puddin'-thief happens to be prowling around. If a friend calls to
have a quiet chat, or to join in a sing-song round the fire, they
let the ladder down for him.
And a very pleasant life they lead, sitting of a summer evening
on the balcony while Ben does his little market-garden jobs below,
and the Puddin' throws bits of bark at the cabbages, and pulls
faces at the little pickle onions, in order to make them squeak
with terror.
On winter nights there is always Puddin' and hot coffee for
supper, and many's the good go-in I've had up there, a-sitting
round the fire. I didn't mean to let on that I knew their address,
on account of so many people wanting to have a go at the Puddin'.
However, it's out now.
When the wind blows and the rain comes down, it's jolly sitting up
aloft in the snug tree-house, especially when old Bill is in good
form and gives us "The Salt Junk Sarah", with all hands joining in
the chorus.
"Oh, rolling round the ocean,
From a far and foreign land,
May suit the common notion
That a sailor's life is grand.
"But as for me, I'd sooner be
A roaring here at home
About the rolling, roaring life
Of them that sails the foam.
"For the homeward-bounder's chorus,
Which he roars across the foam,
Is all about chucking a sailor's life,
And settling down at home.
"Home, home, home,
That's the song of them that roam,
The song of the roaring, rolling sea
Is all about rolling home."