The Treasure of Mr Tipp (2 page)

I gasped and was about to go when one of the robots, wearing tinfoil overalls and an old diver's helmet, suddenly moved.

“Do come in,” it said in a hollow voice. “You're just what I need.”

I stood stock still in the dim light, heart thumping, knees wobbling. “The… The… The door was open…” I managed to say.

The robot reached up and took off its diver's helmet. A kind face under some straggly white hair appeared. “Mr Tipp?” I asked faintly.

The man nodded. “Charlie can't have turned the handle properly when he closed the door,” he said. “There's still a slight problem with his programming.” I must have looked puzzled because Mr Tipp went on. “That's Charlie over there. The robot wearing the red rubber glove on his right hand. I thought it would improve his grip.”

“Perhaps he's left-handed,” I gulped.

“I hadn't thought of that,” smiled Mr Tipp, stepping out of the tinfoil overalls to reveal a patchwork jersey and tartan trousers. “Tinfoil really does keep you warm, you know. This kind of suit might be useful for old people in the winter. Not sure about the diver's helmet, though. Better find another use for that.”

“What about a goldfish bowl,” I suggested. “I've heard that goldfish like a place to hide because they don't like being stared at all the time.”

“Good idea,” said Mr Tipp. “Now, who are
you
? No, don't tell me. You must be the paperboy. I've seen you puffing up the hill on your bike.”

“I'm Jonny Smith,” I said. “It's hard work riding my old bike – it's too small. So I'm saving up for a new one.”

“I ride a three-wheeler that used to belong to my grandfather,” smiled Mr Tipp. “We never throw anything away in our family.”

I could believe that. There was stuff everywhere. “Do you make different kinds of robots?” I asked, gazing around.

Mr Tipp nodded. “Look over here. I've just finished making a scarobot to stop the birds eating the seeds on my roof garden.”

I'd seen scarecrows in the fields before, but never anything like this. It looked like it was made from an old shop-window dummy. It was dressed in a plastic patchwork suit and a red bobble hat. On its feet were giant-sized wellies.

“The gent's outfitters in town was closing down,” explained Mr Tipp. “They put this dummy out in their skip and I rescued it. Now, once the scarobot's on the roof, I'm going to fill these wellies with wet sand to weigh it down. But I'm not as young as I used to be and I need a hand to carry it up there. Right – you grab the head.”

I did as I was told and we staggered out of the house. I held the scarobot while Mr Tipp fetched a ladder. Holding the dummy between us, we climbed onto the flat roof and placed it in the middle of the garden.

“Excellent,” beamed Mr Tipp. “Now I'll pour the sand into the wellies while you go and fill the watering can. It's in the shed somewhere.”

I climbed back down the ladder and looked for the shed. I found it hidden behind some overgrown brambles. It wasn't a proper shed, more like an old canvas igloo, and it was full of junk, too. Eventually, I found the watering can tucked inside an old tumble dryer. I filled it with water from the garden tap, then climbed back onto the roof.

“Well done,” said Mr Tipp. “I've loaded the wellies with sand. You add the water while I make sure the scarobot's arms work.” He took a remote-control device from his trouser pocket, pressed a red button, and the scarobot's arms moved up and down.

“Wow,” I said.

Mr Tipp looked pleased. “What shall we call him? I like to give my robots names.”

I looked at the scarobot's bobble hat. “How about Bob?”

“Bob it is,” cried Mr Tipp. “I once had a teacher called Bob.”

“Oh no,” I cried. “A teacher! Miss Dodds! I have to go. I'll be late for school again.” Then I raced down the ladder and jumped on my bike, waving to Mr Tipp as I did so.

Mr Tipp and Bob waved back. “Come again, Jonny Smith, and I'll show you some more of my inventions!”

“I will!” I yelled. Then I pedalled like the wind, only stopping to hand in my bag to Mr Maini.

“You've been a long time today,” he said. “What kept you?”

“Tell you tomorrow. No time now,” I panted, and scooted off.

The school playground was deserted when I got there, apart from a black-and-white collie, who couldn't read the NO DOGS ALLOWED sign.

I hurried to my classroom and tried to sneak in without anyone noticing, but Miss Dodds can hear a mouse sneeze, and anyway, the door creaks.

“You're late again, Jonny Smith,” she frowned. “What fantastic excuse do you have this time?”

The class looked up expectantly, and my friends, Sara and Surinder, rolled their eyes.

“I was up on a roof garden watering the sand inside a scarobot's wellies,” I said.

Miss Dodds' eyes narrowed. “Complete nonsense, as usual. You'll stay inside at break and write out six reasons why lying is very, very bad,” she ordered.

I sighed deeply. I'd had a feeling she wouldn't believe me.

At break, I took a piece of paper and started to do my punishment exercise.

SIX REASONS WHY LYING IS VERY, VERY BAD.

I wrote down the heading then thought really hard. Number one was easy.

1. LYING GETS YOU INTO TROUBLE. After that it got trickier.

2. LYING GETS YOU INTO TROUBLE WITH YOUR TEACHER, EVEN IF YOU'RE NOT. (LYING, THAT IS.)

3. LYING GETS YOU INTO TROUBLE WITH YOUR FRIENDS WHO THINK YOU'RE AN IDIOT, EVEN IF THEY REALISE LATER THAT YOU'RE TELLING THE TRUTH.

After that it got trickier still.

4. LYING IS VERY, VERY BAD BECAUSE TELLING THE TRUTH IS VERY, VERY GOOD, THOUGH MY DAD LIES WHEN MY MUM ASKS HIM IF HER BUM LOOKS BIG IN HER JEANS.

It does.

5. LYING IS VERY, VERY BAD, ESPECIALLY IF YOU GET FOUND OUT.

After that I got really stuck so…

6. I KNOW LYING IS VERY, VERY BAD, BUT THE TRUTH IS I CAN'T THINK OF ANOTHER REASON. SORRY.

I left the piece of paper on Miss Dodds' desk. I saw her reading it later and her face kind of twitched. I didn't know whether that was good or bad, but I worked really hard for the rest of the day anyway.

At least Sara and Surinder believed me. They hadn't when I'd first told them about Captain Cross-eyed, the huge pirate that
lives at number 13, but that
was
a very strange story. And, once they'd met him, they realised I was telling the truth.

Now Sara and Surinder were really keen to see what a scarobot looked like. So, after school, we all went to Weird Street. We stood at the gate of number 34 and a half and waved to Bob on the flat roof.

“Wow, that's magic,” said Sara, when Bob waved back.

I didn't tell her that I thought Bob was programmed to wave every so often.

“I like his patchwork suit,” said Surinder. “I wonder if Mr Tipp made that, too.”

“Mr Tipp sounds really cool. I'd like to meet him,” said Sara.

“Then you can,” said a voice behind us, and Mr Tipp stopped his big three-wheeler bike at the side of the road.

The three of us stared open-mouthed. The bike was painted every colour of the
rainbow and a trailer full of old junk was attached to it.

“I've been seaching through skips and rescuing treasure,” beamed Mr Tipp. “You can help me unload it, if you like.”