Part 7 (2/2)

It was glorious, astonis.h.i.+ng, absolutely fantastic. The rich spicy smell made his heart whirl and his stomach rumble even louder than before. For one second Orinoco hesitated and then before he could control his paws they had picked up a particularly succulent chocolate cake and rammed it into his open mouth.

Orinoco didn't bother to chew it at all, he was too anxious to get at a lovely sticky Chelsea bun and then a sausage roll. It was when he tasted the meat that his wild delirium was halted, for Wombles are not carnivorous. So he spat out the sausage and buried it in the snow, and then shut his eyes as shame flooded over him. He had been taught all his life that Wombles shared everything. It was true that there were some private possessions such as Tobermory's screwdriver and Great Uncle Bulgaria's tartan shawl, but these were really only on loan.

What Orinoco had just done was an almost unforgivable crime, for while the other Wombles were starving and they were very close to it by now he, Orinoco, had stuffed himself.

'Ohhhhhhh,' groaned Orinoco, wringing his paws.

He was not a particularly brave Womble, but he knew at this moment that the only thing he could possibly do was to go to Great Uncle Bulgaria and tell him everything. Orinoco took a deep breath and opened his eyes and picked up the crate and at the very same moment a terrible voice said in his ear, 'You wicked, wicked Womble.'

It was Tobermory, who had been wandering about trying to discover where the cold draught was coming from, for Orinoco had forgotten to shut the door behind himself.

'I was just going to take this to Great Uncle Bulgaria,' whispered Orinoco.

'After you have gorged your own miserable stomach,' said Tobermory, still in the same dreadful voice, which made Orinoco shake to his back paws.

'How how did you know?' asked Orinoco, in a mere thread of a voice.

'Chocolate crumbs on your whiskers,' said Tobermory, and he shut the door and bolted it and folded his arms while Orinoco went scuttling off down the pa.s.sage making a terrified little whimpering noise.

g*

Chapter 10.

g*Bungo's Great Adventure What was said at that meeting in the middle of the night none of the other Wombles ever discovered and they were far too polite to ask. Of course the general gist of it leaked out, and there was a great deal of shocked whispering in corners, especially when Great Uncle Bulgaria stumped into breakfast with his white fur looking quite lank and dull and his back more bowed than anyone had ever seen it before. And when a squabble broke out at one of the lower tables between two young Wombles over who should have an apple core, Great Uncle Bulgaria didn't even put on his staring spectacles. He just looked at them in such a sad way that it struck terror into their small hearts, and their fur rose up in p.r.i.c.kles and they didn't utter another sound until the end of the meal.

The truth was that Great Uncle Bulgaria hadn't even noticed the noise particularly; his mind was on other things. He felt that he had failed. Failed to teach the Wombles properly and, even worse, failed in his trust to guard and look after them. He should have foreseen this dreadful winter, and somehow made provision for it, but now it was too late.

And as for Orinoco, he was sitting on his bed with his front paws clutched between his knees and his eyes fixed on the wall. He was, without doubt, the most miserable Womble in the whole world. He felt lower than the lowest worm and as he was normally rather fond of himself this was a terrible sensation.

'I'm a wicked, wicked Womble,' he whispered, rocking backwards and forwards.

It was true that he, and he alone, had brought in enough food to last one more day, but that didn't seem to make things much better at the moment. In fact, Orinoco for the first time in his happy-go-lucky existence was struggling with the pangs of a truly dreadful remorse. He was, of course, painting matters much blacker than they really were, for the Wombles are a kindly lot and in a matter of days Great Uncle Bulgaria and Tobermory would have forgiven him. But Orinoco was quite unable to look that far ahead, and he couldn't bear the thought of being despised.

Suddenly an idea came into his head. He would run away. With him gone there would at least be his ration of food to be divided amongst the others, and that would more than make up for what he had stuffed into his greedy mouth that morning.

To think was to act. Orinoco scribbled a note and pinned it to his pillow; then he put on his battered straw hat and tied the scarf over it and wound it round his neck and across his chest and knotted it at the back. He gave one last look round the room and then very quietly let himself out and tiptoed along the empty pa.s.sage.

It was still snowing, although not so hard, and Orinoco felt rather sad, yet n.o.ble and brave at the same time. He walked quickly, with his head bent against the gusts of wind, and quite soon his small pawmarks were being blown away and then completely blotted out by the drifting, silent snow.

Orinoco's disappearance was not discovered until the early afternoon. Everybody felt that he would rather be left alone so they didn't go to his room, but after a while Bungo, who had finished his work in the Workshop, decided to go and have a chat with him.

'Hi, Orinoco, old chap,' he said, putting his head round the door.

Naturally there was no reply and Bungo was about to leave when he noticed the note on the pillow. It was addressed to Great Uncle Bulgaria so he took it to him immediately. The old Womble was dozing in front of the fire, The Times spread across his lap. He read the note and sat up with a thump, his paws trembling.

'Fetch Tobermory,' he snapped.

Tobermory came at once, still carrying a steering wheel which he had been straightening.

'Read this. Read it aloud. Bungo, listen,' commanded Great Uncle Bulgaria.

'Dear Great Uncle Bulgaria, I have gone to seek my fortune. I am only a disapointment . . . That should have two p's,' said Tobermory.

'Go on, go on,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, thumping the floor with his stick.

'A disapointment and a trial to you. I once hid a bottle of lemonade and some other food too, but I never ate it. Bungo knows about it. Please share my rations with everybody else, particularly Bungo if possible. Yours very respectfully, Orinoco Womble. p.s. Have taken the hat and scarf, hope you don't mind. p.p.s. Hope that the Midsummer party is great fun and you have lots to eat. O.W.'

'Well,' said Tobermory and blew his nose violently on a large purple handkerchief.

Bungo didn't say anything at all, he just stood there with his mouth hanging open.

'Young fool,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, who suddenly looked much more his old self, for there's nothing like worrying about somebody else's troubles to make you forget your own. 'Idiot, noddle-top, cork-brain, addle-pate, THICKHEAD.'

And he got up and began to pace backwards and forwards across the room talking all the time. 'Of course we'll have to bring him back. Why, a Womble hasn't been lost from this Common since the great kidnapping in 1914 or was it '15? Still that's beside the point, and anyway I wasn't in control then. But I am now and I'm not going to have it. Do you understand!' And he suddenly turned on Bungo, who nearly jumped out of his fur.

'Yes, I mean, no,' said Bungo.

'You're a fool too,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'Knew you were a fool when you chose a name like Bungo. Silly sort of name. Still you've improved a bit recently, I'll say that for you,' and he shot a shrewd look at Bungo as though he were weighing something up in his mind. 'Well then, seeing that you're a friend of Orinoco's, where do you think he's run to? Eh?'

'I can't imagine,' said Bungo wretchedly. 'He always seemed so happy here.'

There was a short worried silence and then Tobermory said suddenly, 'Wait! There was a book he was always getting out of the library . . .' And with a speed surprising in a Womble of his age he left the room, to return three minutes later with a large and somewhat tattered catalogue. It was extremely brightly coloured and printed in gold across the front were the words: g*FORTUNE & BASON.

SPLENDID CHRISTMAS CATALOGUE, 1932.

g*'Don't see why this should interest Orinoco,' muttered Great Uncle Bulgaria, flipping through the pages which showed pictures of clothes and jewellery. 'Ho-hum. Ah yes, yes indeed. Now we're getting somewhere.' And he thrust the booklet under Tobermory's nose.

'Cream Chocolate Raspberry Truffles, our speciality,' read out Tobermory. 'Fifty pence a pound. Whipped Coconut Icing Dollops. Rare Rich Pomegranates in thick Hungarian honey. Turkish Coffee Fudge. Sugar-coated Chocolate Mice . . . dear me! It all sounds most indigestible.'

'Daresay it does,' agreed Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'But just the sort of thing to take Orinoco's fancy all the same. That's where he's gone, to Fortune and Bason in Piccadilly. Someone will have to go after him!'

'Who?' said Bungo.

The two old Wombles said nothing, but they glanced at each other and then fixed their eyes on Bungo in a most unnerving way.

'Tomsk is larger,' murmured Tobermory, 'but . . .'

'Ho-hum, quite,' agreed Great Uncle Bulgaria, 'but this young Womble on the other hand . . .'

'It's a possibility,' agreed Tobermory.

'What is, please?' asked Bungo, unable to keep quiet any longer.

'You are,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, suddenly making up his mind. 'You are, young Bungo. You'll have to go after Orinoco and bring him home.'

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