The Magic Pudding | Page 8

log.
"Treachery is at work," he shouted.
"Treachery," roared Bill, and with one blow on the snout knocked the
Fireman endways on into the burning cinders, where his helmet fell off,
and exposed the countenance of that snooting, snouting scoundrel, the
Possum.
The Possum, of course, hadn't expected to have his disguise pierced so
swiftly, and, though he managed to scramble out of the fire in time to
save his bacon, he was considerably singed down the back.
"What a murderous attack!" he exclaimed. "O, what a brutal attempt to
burn a man alive!" and as some hot cinders had got down his back he
gave a sharp yell and ran off, singeing and smoking. Bill, distracted
with rage, ran after the Possum, then changed his mind and ran after the
Wombat, so that, what with running first after one and then after the

other, they both had time to get clean away, and disappeared over the
skyline.
"I see it all," shouted Bill, casting himself down in despair. "Them low
puddin'-thieves has borrowed a fireman's helmet, collared a hose, an'
set fire to a cowshed in order to lure us away from the Puddin'."
"The whole thing's a low put-up job on our noble credulity," said Sam,
casting himself down beside Bill.
"It's one of the most frightful things that's ever happened," said Bill.
"It's worse than treading on tacks with bare feet," said Sam.
"It's worse than bein' caught stealin' fowls," said Bill.
"It's worse than bein' stood on by cows," said Sam.
"It's almost as bad as havin' an uncle called Aldobrantifoscofornio,"
said Bill, and they both sang loudly--
"It's worse than weevils, worse than warts, It's worse than corns to bear.
It's worse than havin' several quarts Of treacle in your hair.
"It's worse than beetles in the soup, It's worse than crows to eat. It's
worse than wearin' small-sized boots Upon your large-sized feet.
"It's worse than kerosene to boose, It's worse than ginger hair. It's
worse than anythin' to lose A Puddin' rich and rare."
Bunyip Bluegum reproved this despondency, saying "Come, come, this
is no time for giving way to despair. Let us, rather, by the fortitude of
our bearing prove ourselves superior to this misfortune and, with the
energy of justly enraged men, pursue these malefactors, who have so
richly deserved our vengeance. Arise!
"The grass is green, the day is fair, The dandelions abound. Is this a
time for sad despair And sitting on the ground?

"Let gloom give way to angry glare, Let weak despair be drowned, Let
vengeance in its rage declare Our Puddin' must be found.
"Our Puddin' in some darksome lair In iron chains is bound, While
puddin'-snatchers on him fare, And eat him by the pound.
"Then let's resolve to do and dare. Let teeth with rage be ground. Let
voices to the heavens declare Our Puddin' MUST be found."
"Bravely spoken," said Bill, immediately recovering from despair.
"Those gallant words have fired our blood," said Sam, and they both
shook hands with Bunyip, to show that they were now prepared to
follow the call of vengeance.
In order to investigate this dastardly outrage," said Bunyip, "we must
become detectives, and find a clue. We must find somebody who has
seen a singed possum. Once traced to their lair, mother-wit will suggest
some means of rescuing our Puddin'."
They set off at once, and, after a brisk walk, came to a small house with
a signboard on it saying, "Henderson Hedgehog, Horticulturist."
Henderson himself was in the garden, horticulturing a cabbage, and
they asked him if he had chanced to see a singed possum that morning.
"What's that? What, what?" said Henderson Hedgehog, and when they
had repeated the question, he said, " You must speak up, I'm a trifle
deaf."
"Have you seen a singed possum?" shouted Bill. "I can't hear you," said
Henderson.
"Have you seen a SINGED POSSUM?" roared Bill.
"To be sure," said Henderson, "but the turnips are backward."
"Turnips be stewed," yelled Bill in such a tremendous voice that he
blew his own hat off. "HAVE YOU SEEN A SINGED POSSUM?"
"Good season for wattle blossom," said Henderson. "Well, yes, but a

very poor season for carrots."
"A man might as well talk to a carrot as try an' get sense out of this runt
of a feller," said Bill, disgusted. "Come an' see if we can't find someone
that it won't bust a man's vocal cords gettin' information out of."
They left Henderson to his horticulturing and walked on till they met a
Parrot who was a Swagman, or a Swagman who was a Parrot. He must
have been one or the other, if not both, for he had a bag and a swag,
and a beak and a billy, and a thundering