War of the World Records (7 page)

“He just appeared out of nowhere,” said Abigail. “He had me trapped in a tree, and he was going to eat me—but Arthur and Ruby saved my life. Then he trapped Arthur, and he was going to eat him too—but then Hamlet came to the rescue.”

“I see,” Rupert Goldwin said, scowling as he turned to his father. “Ridgely was the World's Largest Living Lizard, and now their dog has
murdered
him!”

“Precisely,” Rex agreed, turning to face Mr. Whipple. “Have you any idea how difficult he was to acquire—or how important that record was to us? You should never have brought that slobbering dog with you in the first place!”

“I must say I'm rather glad we did bring him, Mr. Goldwin,” snapped Arthur's father. “If we hadn't, what would have become of Abigail and Arthur—or your daughter Ruby? Are you honestly suggesting you'd rather have had your lizard eat our children?”

“Well, no,” Rex said curtly. “But your dog didn't have to
kill
him!”

His daughters Rosalind and Roxy pulled each other close, scrunching up their faces in dramatic sorrow.

“What choice did he have?” demanded Mr. Whipple. “It was the children or the lizard. You're the one who chose to house a deadly Komodo dragon on your estate. Which reminds me—how
did
it get out, Mr. Goldwin?”

“Isn't it obvious?” said Rex. “Being the last to leave Ridgely's living quarters, your animal-obsessed daughter failed to lock the door behind her, and the poor critter simply followed her scent, unaware of the terrible fate that awaited him. Komodo dragons have a phenomenal sense of smell, you know—just another of the many traits that make them so endearing.”

At this, Rita Goldwin's sniffling swelled to a sob, but Mr. Whipple remained unmoved. “Hmm,” he said. “And would you include your lizard's hunger for human children among those traits as well?”

Rita's sobbing reached another crescendo.

“How dare you mock Ridgely's memory in our time of grief!” snarled Rex.

“Forgive me, Mr. and Mrs. Goldwin,” Arthur's father growled. “It's just that I'm beginning to believe you are somehow mixed up in my family's recent misfortunes—including this latest mishap!”

“Really, Charlie!” cried Rex. “First your mangy dog murders our beloved family pet, then your record-certifying crony robs us of a well-deserved world record—and now you're suggesting I'm guilty of sabotage? I resent the implication! Face it, Charlie—you've never forgiven me for Norbury, and now you're blaming your present failures on me as well. Surely it's not
my
fault your family is cursed!”

Arthur's father took a threatening step forward, but Mrs. Whipple held him back—then stepped in front of him.

“Mr. Goldwin,” Arthur's mother declared, “while I am grateful to you for saving my husband's life at our Birthday Extravaganza, I'm afraid your actions since that time have negated any good turns you have done us and voided whatever good will we may have owed you. I have tried my best to be neighborly, however insulting you and your wife have been, but I refuse to endure it any longer. Though I do not entirely know what transpired between you and my husband in the time before I knew him, as far as I can tell, he has been right to mistrust you.”

“Well!” huffed Rita Goldwin.

Mr. Whipple placed his arm around his wife and nodded. “Thank you, dear.”

A guileful grin slowly stretched across Rex's face. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Whipple,” he said, the unctuous charm returning to his voice. “And I thought we were getting on so well.”

By this time, all the hiders and seekers had arrived on the scene and grouped themselves into two divided lines. Mr. Whipple turned to the line that had formed behind him and announced, “Come now, Whipples. Some of us require medical attention—and it seems we'll get no help from our new neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Goldwin, allow us to show ourselves
permanently
off your estate. Henry and Simon, would you assist our wounded hero?”

Arthur's brothers nodded and turned to Hamlet, who still lay panting proudly at Abigail's feet. The dog's tail began to wag as the boys drew near, but when Henry wrapped his arm around Hamlet's front legs, the dog let out a sharp whine.

“It's all right, boy,” Henry said softly. Then, with Simon's help, he hoisted the Great Dane into his arms.

“Roland! Rupert!” called Rex Goldwin, gesturing to the deceased Komodo dragon.

His sons walked to the giant lump of lizard flesh and heaved it off the ground. This proved a far more awkward task than they'd expected, but they managed it with as much dignity as possible for two boys with dead lizard limbs poking out of their arms in every direction.

“Well, Charlie,” Rex concluded, “it appears our friendly rivalry has just been escalated to a blood feud. I've always thought blood feuds were the very best sort of feud—haven't you?”

Mr. Whipple did not answer.

Mr. Boyle removed a sheaf of papers from his leaf-covered briefcase and handed it to Arthur's father. “I'll need this Blood Feud Escalation form completed within the next twenty-three hours, as per Article 48 of your Intention of Rivalry form.”

Mr. Whipple took the papers and stamped off to gather his children.

“Don't worry, Mr. Boyle,” said Uncle Mervyn. “You'll have it before the ink has even dried.”

“Or shouldn't Blood Feud Escalation forms be signed in blood?” snapped Mrs. Waite. “Afraid it might take a while to draw blood from all the Whipples; I'm sure they'd be more than happy to use yours instead, Mr. Boyle.”

The corners of Mr. Boyle's mouth twitched upward.

As the two families marched off in separate directions, Arthur looked to Ruby just in time to share a fleeting, troubled glance.

• • •

Cordelia had barely bandaged the last of her brother's wounds when Arthur bolted from the Whipple house.

“Thanks, Cordelia,” he called behind him as he threw open the garden doors and burst outside.

“Easy, Arthur!” his sister called back. “You've had quite a shock and—”

But Arthur was too eager to get back to Hamlet and the others to heed her warning.

He hurried off across the estate and eventually arrived at the facility where Mr. Mahankali, manager of the Whipples' private zoo, cared for sick and injured animals. As Arthur rounded the corner, however, he heard a noise that spun his head toward the thick copse of trees that abutted the menagerie wall.

His heart stopped as he watched a giant shadowy figure disappear behind a tree trunk.

Arthur's mind raced. The impossible height of the figure left little doubt. It could belong to no other person but Mr. Overkill, the mysterious giant clown who—along with his dwarfish partner, Mr. Undercut—always seemed to turn up whenever the Whipples were plunged into terror.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted. “What are you doing here?! Why won't you leave us alone?! Come back here!”

He suddenly felt so outraged he completely forgot to be afraid. He charged after the retreating figure, ready to capture the giant and dwarf once and for all—or to die trying. But when he rounded the tree, he saw no sign of anyone. He darted to the next tree—and then the next—searching frantically for another glimpse of the figure, but again found nothing. Arthur panted in disbelief. Either his mind had been playing tricks on him, or the giant had simply vanished into thin air.

Arthur scurried back toward his original course, more exasperated than ever. As he passed the first tree a second time, he now noticed a small, light-colored object ensnared in its roots. He plucked the article from the ground and discovered it to be a crumpled piece of paper.

He smoothed out its creases to reveal a typewritten note on a sheet of stationery. Below the familiar-looking seal of a flaming five-pointed crown, Arthur could just make out the following text in the moonlight:

Dear Messrs. Overkill & Undercut,

My patience is wearing thin. Though you have succeeded in creating a moderate amount of chaos, you have yet to eliminate a single one of your targets. This time, I'll make it very simple for you:

[
 X 
]
  14:30—Get out of bed.

[
 x 
]
  21:00—Retrieve the key.

[   ]
  23:00—Feed the lizard.

I would hate to have to inform the CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD if your failure continues.

Signed,
The Treasurer

Arthur's hands trembled as he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. He repeated his search of the area, but found himself all alone once again.

Feud for Thought

A
part from the
sinking sense of dread he now carried in his bones, Arthur had escaped the Goldwins' dinner party with only a few small bandages over some minor scrapes and scratches. Hamlet, however, would not be so lucky.

The scariest thing about Komodo dragons, it turns out, is not their quick speed or enormous size, nor their powerful jaws or serrated teeth, but rather a fifth weapon in their arsenal—a weapon virtually invisible, yet far deadlier than any of the others, and located in the unlikeliest of places: Komodo dragon drool.

Inside the mouth of every Komodo dragon lives a microscopic legion of lethal bacteria just waiting to be deployed. Consequently, the creature needs only to land a superficial bite anywhere on an animal's body and simply wait for the bacteria to do its work. Soon the wound festers, and the unwary animal is dead within a week. The Komodo dragon consults its appointment book to see which animal it nibbled on the week before, and thus what will be on the evening's menu, then uses its super keen sense of smell to track down the corpse. And voila! Buffalo buffet.

Of course, since the Goldwins' Komodo dragon was no longer around to claim its final bite-victim, Hamlet was in little danger of becoming Komodo dragon fodder anytime soon. If only there were some way to tell this to the bacteria.

Try as he might, Mr. Mahankali could not stop the infection in the dog's front leg. In order to limit the spread of gangrene, he was left with one terrible option.

“Is there no other way, Mahankali?” entreated Arthur's father.

“I am afraid not,” Mr. Mahankali replied, his grave expression showing through the thick hair that covered his face. “The leg must be removed. Even then, there are no guarantees he will recover, but it is our best chance at saving him.”

Arthur felt sick to his stomach as he considered the unfitting reward Hamlet would receive for such heroic actions.

“Please, Mr. Mahankali,” Abigail cried, “he saved our lives. Don't hurt him anymore!”

“Do not worry, little one; I will make sure he does not feel a thing.”

“How can we help?” said Mrs. Whipple, doing her best to keep her composure.

“Please, all of you, you must go and get some sleep. There is nothing more you can do for Hamlet tonight but pray.”

• • •

The next morning, Arthur awoke before the sun. He checked under his mattress to make sure the Treasurer's note was still there, then returned it to its hiding spot. Before he could devote himself to detective work, however, he would have to clear his mind of another matter first. He threw on his robe and crept out into the corridor. There, he found Abigail already standing at the top of the stairs, holding a tiny hamster in an astronaut suit.

“What are you doing up so early, Abigail?” he whispered.

“Corporal Whiskerton and I are too worried about Hamlet to sleep,” she replied.

“Yeah,” said Arthur, scratching the top of the hamster's head with his finger, “me too. Let's go see what we can find out.”

Just then, the intermittent sounds of clicking latches and squeaking hinges filled the hallway. One by one, each of the other Whipple children emerged from the row of bedrooms and quietly crept toward the stairs.

“Come on then,” whispered Henry when everyone was accounted for. “Let's go.”

The children found their father outside on the terrace, heading back toward the house.

“Dad,” Abigail blurted, “have you spoken to Mr. Ma-hankali yet? How did the surgery go? Did Hamlet make it? When can we see him? Is he going to recover?”

Mr. Whipple smiled a warm but heavy-hearted smile. “The surgery went well. Mr. Mahankali has made up a recovery room within his quarters, so he can watch over Hamlet—though I'm afraid it's too soon to say whether or not he'll actually recover. You can see him now, if you like, but he is heavily sedated—and likely will be for some time. Come, children, I'll walk with you.”

The sun's first rays shone through the trees as the Whipples made their way past the private zoo at the corner of the estate and crowded onto the doorstep of the small house beside it.

The door soon opened to reveal the hair-covered face of the Whipples' menagerie manager. In the light of day, Arthur couldn't help but notice the scarred section of dark skin below Mr. Mahankali's right ear where hair no longer grew. Until his fiery brush with death during the Birthday Cake Catastrophe he had indeed been the Hairiest Man Alive.

“Ah, children,” the Panther-Man smiled, “come in, come in. We must honor our courageous friend, yes?”

Mr. Mahankali led the group through his elegantly decorated home, past exquisite textiles and artwork, ancient artifacts and yellowing Sanskrit parchments, each display carefully illuminated with museum-style lighting.

They passed through a door at the far side of the front room to find their giant Great Dane lying on a bed surrounded by glowing candles. Apart from the gentle rising and falling of his belly, the dog was motionless. Where once his front right leg had been, there was now only a short stub, wrapped in white gauze.

Abigail burst into tears and rushed to Hamlet's side. “Oh, Hammie,” she cried, “what have they done to you?” She placed her tiny hand on the dog's massive chest and buried her face in the bed, where she continued to quietly sob.

Arthur and the other children looked on in silence, many of them fighting back tears, some of them unsuccessfully. Heartwarming as it was to see Hamlet alive on the other side of surgery, it was equally
heartbreaking
to find him in this new truncated state, lacking any of his usual exuberance.

Corporal Whiskerton stood on the bed beside Abigail and Hamlet, holding his little space helmet in his tiny clawed hands. Ever since Hamlet had rescued him from a neighbor dog after a test launch gone horribly wrong, the rocket-piloting hamster had become especially fond of his Great Dane comrade. The sight of the forlorn little corporal was almost as sad as the sight of the dog himself.

“So what's the prognosis, Mr. Mahankali?” said Henry, doing his best to sound practical. “What are Hamlet's chances at recovery?”

“Who can say?” the Panther-Man replied. “He was very, very weak, and yet, he made it through the surgery. This shows to me that his will is strong. Still, we must not forget that life is a fragile, mysterious thing, which does not worry itself with our silly predictions. We must wait and see.”

• • •

When everyone had said their temporary goodbyes, Mr. Whipple led his children—all except for Abigail, who insisted on staying with Hamlet—away from Mr. Mahan-kali's cottage and back to the main house.

There, they were met by the scent of slightly burnt sausage and toast.

“What is that delightful smell?” said Beatrice.

“That,” Mr. Whipple replied, “is your mother in the kitchen.”

“But what about Chef Mulchmann?”

“Gave him the sack first thing this morning. Until we find someone better suited to taking Sammy's old position— impossible a task as that may be—your mother will be cooking the meals around here. I trust you will all find this agreeable.”

There were no complaints. Amid the darkness of the previous night and subsequent morning, here was a tiny bright spot. The Whipple children took their breakfast in the parlor, where they enjoyed their first smiles of the day. Though the toast was a bit blackened and the eggs slightly runny, it certainly beat another one of Chef Mulchmann's casseroles.

Arthur realized, of course, what a major concession this had been for his father. His mother possessed many extraordinary talents, but cooking was not exactly one of them. Any cuisine-related records for that morning's meal had been effectively forfeited.

With this in mind, Arthur took another bite of burnt toast. It was a strange feeling to eat his food simply because he was hungry, without trying to break any world records in the process. Indeed, it felt rather refreshing.

In the chair beside him, his father sipped from a teacup while studying the newspaper. Arthur was glad to see him relax a bit after the week their family had had. His father then flipped to the headline on the second page.

Before Arthur could read any more, the paper was abruptly spattered with tea as his father burst into a fit of coughing.

“That does it!” Mr. Whipple spluttered, flinging the newspaper into the fireplace. “We must put an end to this mockery! Finish your breakfast, children. From now until the World Record World Championships, we shall do nothing else but prepare ourselves for the competition, that we may silence these Goldwins once and for all!”

• • •

And so, after a brief reprieve, it was back to business at the Whipple house. And then some.

When they had finished their breakfast, the Whipple children scattered across the grounds and set to work on their daily record attempts, which were now instilled with even greater purpose. Arthur, equally caught up in the fervor, rushed off to the terrace to meet Uncle Mervyn for his scheduled attempt at Most Wine Glasses Balanced on Chin.

After nineteen tries and a dozen bins of broken glass, however, Arthur was forced to sit himself on the steps for a breather.

Uncle Mervyn swept up the glittering remains of the latest attempt and smiled down at the melancholy boy. “That was a good one, lad. You had it—right up until the point when you didn't quite have it anymore. Very close, indeed.” He laid down the broom and took a seat next to Arthur. “If you keep trying, you're bound to get it one of these days. . . . But perhaps, in the meantime, we should try to find a more suitable event for this year's championships.”

“You think so?”

“My boy—not that it will make you any finer a lad—but if you want it, I believe you have the potential to be one of the great record breakers of our time. You've got the will, you've got the means—and you've certainly got the heart. The way I see it, the only thing standing between you and the
Grazelby Guide
is the right event—and we just need to find it.”

“Wow, thanks Uncle Mervyn. Believe me, I do want to be a record breaker—more than anything. But if I've been searching my whole life with no luck so far, do you really think we'll be able to find such an event in just a few weeks?”

“Well, of course I can't say for sure—but it's certainly no less probable just because you've been looking for a long time. That's the nature of searching: one minute you haven't found something and the next minute you have. When Ikey Newton discovered gravity, he had gone his whole life up to that moment
without
discovering gravity—and it had been right beneath his boots the entire time.”

“I'm pretty sure the only thing beneath my boots right now is broken glass, but I think I know what you mean. Just because I've gone all my life without breaking a record, doesn't mean it couldn't happen tomorrow, right?”

“That's the spirit, lad. Now, have you still got your magical domino?”

Arthur reached into his pocket and removed the small black tile he'd received from his uncle on his last birthday. “Always keep it with me,” he said.

“And it's brought you luck so far, has it?”

“Er,” said Arthur, thinking back to the uncommon run of catastrophes he'd endured since it had come into his possession, “I guess so.”

“Well,” Uncle Mervyn coughed, “never mind about that. The important thing to remember is that, like that domino in the Most Dominoes Toppled record, we all have our part to play—right?”

“Right,” said Arthur, trying to believe what he was saying.

“Good. Now take the rest of the day and make a list of all the events that sound even remotely appealing to you. Tomorrow, we'll start at the top of the list and quickly work our way downward. If an event gives you too much trouble, we'll simply skip it and move on to the next—until we find the record you were meant to break.”

“Thanks, Uncle Mervyn,” Arthur said, smiling, as he jumped to his feet. “I'll get started right away.”

“Very good, lad. Today begins a new chapter in the life of Arthur Whipple—a chapter entitled ‘Success.'”

Arthur marched back into the house with his head held high, his hopes lifted by Uncle Mervyn's encouraging words and their new plan to get his name in the record books. With that settled, he could get back to thinking about even more important matters. He ran up to his room and grabbed his leather-bound copy of the most recent
Grazelby Guide
along with a notepad and pen. Then, after a quick glance at the clock, he retrieved the Treasurer's note from under his mattress, hurried back down the stairs, and headed for the front door. He did not want to be late for his midday appointment with Ruby.