The Fantastic Family Whipple (4 page)

Sammy moved his safety goggles into position, lifted the hose, and began spraying melted butter over the face of the French toast. When he was satisfied with a generous golden coat, he retrieved a second hose and began dousing it with warm maple syrup.

By the time he had finished, a mixture of maple syrup and butter was dripping over the edges and onto the ground. Returning the syrup hose to its receptacle, Sammy closed the serving cart doors.

“And now,” he declared, “the finishing touch: a sprinkling of the Finest Ground Icing Sugar on the Planet.” Removing the lid from a large, long-handled pot, he grabbed the handle with both hands, then flung it forward like a massive lacrosse stick, emptying its contents into the air.

When the cloud had settled, the Whipples raised their goggles, revealing large white circles around their eyes, and got their first look at the finished culinary work of art that lay before them.

“Couldn’t have painted it better myself,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.

It was truly a masterpiece of French toast. Its dark, golden-brown edges stood in stark contrast to the snow-white sugar that had settled on its summit. Giant crannies on its upper face formed tide pools of butter and syrup. Steam curled off its surface as the hot glaze met with the crisp morning air.

“Incredible…” gasped Mrs. Waite.

“Indeed,” Uncle Mervyn replied, glancing affectionately at the new housekeeper. As he extracted a tape measure from his jacket pocket, he added, “I’d—er—I’d be happy to give you a tour of the estate’s other wonders sometime—away from all these young whippersnappers—I mean, if you’d like, of course.”

“Why, Mr. McCleary,” grinned Mrs. Waite, “I’d be delighted.”

Uncle Mervyn gave a blushing smile, then flashed a thumbs-up to Arthur—and set about obtaining French toast measurements and marking them down on his clipboard. He then snapped several photographs of the Whipple family and their giant breakfast, to be used for publication exclusively in the
Grazelby Guide
, as per the Whipples’ long-standing and highly lucrative sponsorship contract.

With all the official business completed, Sammy cut off the bread’s crust with a machete, then simply said, “Enjoy.”

The Whipples moved their chairs up to the table—and proceeded to follow the chef’s orders.

Despite his past criminal leanings, Sammy the Spatula had never lied to them about food. This truly was the best French toast they had ever tasted.

In twenty minutes’ time, most of the Whipple family had eaten all they could, which left the giant piece of French toast still looking relatively untouched, apart from having lost maybe three inches on each side. The only Whipples still actively eating were Simon, Arthur, and Beatrice.

As Simon could not feed himself, on account of his hands being unable to leave his accordion during his record attempt, Arthur had been assigned to cut Simon’s food for him and raise it to his mouth. Arthur, still balancing on one foot, alternated between serving a bite of French toast to
his brother and serving a bite of French toast to himself, which meant it took them nearly twice as long to eat their breakfast. Beatrice, on the other hand, had already eaten twice as much as both the boys put together, and was showing no signs of slowing down.

“Very good, dear,” coached her father, “but pace yourself. It’s only a training session. The last thing you need is a hyperextended stomach before the competitive eating season has even begun.”

As Beatrice grunted her acknowledgement through bulging cheeks, Sammy the Spatula approached Mr. Whipple and said, “I trust your breakfast was satisfactory, sir?”

“More than satisfactory,” smiled his boss. “Truly
excellent
. You’ve really outdone yourself, Sammy.”

“Why, fank you, Mr. Whipple,” Sammy smiled back. “Plenty more bread where that came from, of course. The loaf’s the size of a bloomin’ railway carriage, it is. ’Ope you’ll not mind ’aving the World’s Largest Sandwich for lunch and the World’s Largest Bread Pudding tonight for dessert?”

“Not at all, Sammy. That’ll do nicely.”

“Very good, sir.”

The chef hesitated a moment. His smile faded away, then he lowered his voice and added, “Sir—I was wondering if you’d given it any more thought, what we talked about the uvver day.”

Mr. Whipple exhaled slowly then looked up. “Yes—I’m afraid I have, Sammy,” he said. His voice was nearly a whisper,
but Arthur, hopping on one foot between Simon and his father, could just make out the words over his brother’s accordion. “I’m afraid we just can’t do it this time,” Mr. Whipple continued. “We’ve been happy to help you in the past, but I worry if we keep bailing you out whenever you get in over your head, you’ll never learn from your mistakes. I’m sorry, Sammy—really, I am.”

The chef nodded and gave a sad smile. “It’s all right, guv. I understand. I’m sorry to come to you like this at all—it’s just when I get round the lads from the old days, I start acting a bit like me old self, I’m afraid. But I am trying to do better. If only I might’ve stayed away from the drink this time, I’m sure I’d never have set that record for Largest Losing Bet on a Backroom Game of Hangman. Ravver ironic the word were ‘whisky’ in the end, weren’t it? Serves me right, though, I reckon. Just hope I can convince ‘Meat Cleaver’ Mike to agree to a long-term payment plan.”

Mr. Whipple smiled warmly. “You’re a good man, Sammy. When you’re ready to get help, we’ll be happy to assist you.”

“Fanks, guv. You done so much for me already, just letting me come work for you lot. Honestly, there’s nobody in this world I’d ravver cook for.”

“And there’s nobody we’d rather have cook for us.”

Sammy smiled, then—catching Arthur’s gaze for a split second—returned to his serving cart.

Arthur sighed. He had not realized before how badly his personal plan to fix Sammy’s money troubles had hinged
on his father’s contributions. The only other donor he had secured was one of rather modest means. He would have to rethink his strategy.

As Arthur racked his brain for new ideas to help Sammy, Mrs. Waite appeared at his father’s back, holding little Ivy in one arm and a three-inch-thick newspaper in the other.

“Paper, sir?” offered the housekeeper.

“Oh, yes—thank you, Mrs. Waite,” Mr. Whipple replied, taking the hefty newspaper and unfurling it before him. “A little light reading might do me some good at the moment.”

The front page of
The World Record
(the Most Circulated Newspaper on Earth) was scattered with record-breaking headlines from across the globe, including:
SOVIET BEAR “BORIS” BECOMES FIRST ANIMAL IN SPACE—BEATING AMERICAN EAGLE “KEITH” BY LESS THAN FOUR MINUTES;
and
LARGEST EVER EXPEDITION TO SOUTH POLE VIA ICE CREAM VAN ARRIVES ON SCHEDULE;
and
FIRST NUCLEAR POWER PLANT HAS FIRST NUCLEAR REACTOR LEAK.

What Arthur’s father failed to notice, however, was the tiny picture of a certain smiling man in the paper’s lower half.

Mrs. Waite hesitated a moment before turning to carry Ivy and her matching toy bear off for their post-breakfast activities—but then turned back to Mr. Whipple. “Pardon my asking, sir,” she said, pointing to the thumbnail photo at the bottom corner of the paper, “but who’s this fellow on the front page here? Says he’s returning to the world-record-breaking scene after nearly two decades—like it’s
meant to be news. But I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. What’s his name—
Rex Goldwin
, is it?”

Mr. Whipple gave a violent cough as he nearly choked on his last bite of French toast. Even from across the table, Arthur could see the color drain from his father’s face.

“Sir?” said the housekeeper. “Are you quite all right? Why, you don’t look well at all. I hope I’ve not done anything to upset you.”

Arthur’s father swallowed hard, pounded twice on his chest, and shook his head. “No,” he wheezed, “not at all, Mrs. Waite.”

Mrs. Whipple gave a concerned look to her husband. “What ever is the matter, dear?” she said.

“Nothing,” the man replied gruffly. “It’s just—it’s…nothing.” He crumpled the newspaper shut and rose from his chair. “Excuse me.” And with that, he turned and strode off toward the house.

His family looked on in puzzlement.

“Dad really ought to have that indigestion checked out,” said Cordelia. “If he’d ever make an appointment, I’d be happy to diagnose him.”

“Well,” said Arthur’s mother some moments later, “it was a bit of an odd exit, but I believe your father has the right idea. We’ve all got a busy day ahead of us if we’re to make the eligibility requirement for the championships by our birthday, so let’s get a move on, shall we? Simon, Arthur, Beatrice—you may finish your breakfast; everybody else—you are excused. Mrs. Waite,” she added, rising
from the table and turning to the housekeeper, “you may fetch Mr. Mahankali for leftovers distribution.”

As usual, there was a sizable amount of food remaining, and the Whipples saw to it that nothing went to waste. As a matter of procedure, they donated half of every uneaten meal to a nearby orphanage, to help feed those less fortunate than themselves (and to secure the record for Most Food Donated to a Charitable Organization by a Single Donor)—while saving the other half to feed the Whipple animals.

Mr. Mahankali, who trained and cared for the animals in the Whipple family menagerie, arrived promptly at the table on the back of Shiva, the World’s Largest Indian Elephant. It was a common mode of transportation for him, but visitors to the Whipple estate seldom remembered the enormous beast he rode on. They were too busy staring at the rider himself.

At first glance, it was unclear whether he was the animal caretaker—or actually one of the animals. On closer inspection, it became apparent he was in fact humanoid, but every inch of his face was covered with long, dark, silver-streaked hair—which was parted in the middle and pulled back into a bow. Owing partly to the three-piece, pin-striped suit he wore and partly to his large, dark, twinkling eyes, he looked at once savage—and completely civilized. He was Phoolendu Mahankali, the legendary “Panther-Man of Pandharpur” and Hairiest Man Alive.

Mr. Mahankali dismounted his elephantine steed and
exchanged greetings with Sammy the Spatula as the two prepared for the important task of leftovers distribution. Those who had finished eating had already gone back into the house to prepare for that day’s various record attempts—except for Abigail, who had been going through a sort of wild-animal withdrawal ever since returning from her semester abroad with the wolves, and naturally wanted to ride on the elephant. She politely asked permission from the beast’s caretaker, who smiled and said, “Of course, my child,” then picked her up and hoisted her onto Shiva’s back.

The Panther-Man then retrieved a long, wooden-handled length of wire from the elephant’s saddlebag and gave one of the handles to Sammy.

Positioning themselves at opposite sides of the table, the two men pulled the wire taut, then brought it down like a giant cheese slicer to cut the French toast into two triangular halves. With a set of handheld meathooks, they promptly grabbed the farther of the two halves and slid it off the table, onto the broad trailer cart that was harnessed to the elephant.

“Thank you most kindly, Mr. Sammy,” said the Panther-Man. “The animals will be most pleased to have a breakfast so delectable.”

“No trouble at all,” smiled the chef. “You know, Mahankali—it’s a long way back to them animals, innit? Hate to see you starve to deff before you make it to the uvver side of the estate. Guess you’ll just ’ave to stop and ’ave a bite yourself, eh?”

“Oh, please, Mr. Sammy,” cried the animal caretaker, “I could not possibly!”

Sammy waved the sweet aroma to his nostrils, shut his eyes, and inhaled dramatically. “Very well,” he smirked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you then.”

A mischievous smile broke through Mr. Mahankali’s genteel expression. “Okay,” he whispered. “Maybe just a little bite.”

Smiling to Arthur and the other children, he walked to the elephant’s side, signaled to Abigail, who shouted, “
Chaloˉ
!”—which is Hindi for “Let’s go!”—and in an instant, they were off—the little girl riding on top of the elephant, the Panther-Man walking alongside, and half of the World’s Largest Piece of French Toast trailing behind them, on its way to feed Mr. Mahankali’s beastly dependents.

When Sammy had packed up his serving cart, he turned toward the table and said, “Right, you kids. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast…. Oh—Arfur—may I speak to you a minute?”

Arthur, startled by the request, looked to Simon—who shrugged at him behind his accordion. “Of course, Sammy,” Arthur replied dubiously. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then hopped over to where the chef stood.

As soon as Arthur had arrived there, Sammy retrieved a sack of coins the size of a coconut and dropped it into the boy’s hands. “Fanks for this, mate,” he said. “But I can’t take your money.”

Arthur lowered his shoulders and gave a sheepish grin. It seemed his “donor of modest means” had been discovered.
“How did you know it was me?” he said.

“After I found this sack in the kitchen wiv me name on it, I found
this
in a nearby dustbin.” Sammy held up a pink ceramic shard, on which the lower half of the word “Arthur” was clearly visible. “This were the piggy bank you were using for your Largest Coin Collection attempt, weren’t it?”