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Now, those of you who know anything about Gritshire must remember that Even Moor is where all the mystery comes from; it is always misty there, and strange lights are seen at night. Because of that, Gritshire has never been an ordinary county. Magic things happen, much to the annoyance of the County Council, because you can’t put a tax on magic.
Somehow they had driven out of the twentieth century and into the first century BC. He stepped forward, trying to remember his Latin. “All hail—er—mighty Caesar,” he began. The Roman officer was obviously impressed. “We—er—have been sent by Rome in this new—er—mechanical elephant, to see—er—how the Imperial Legions are getting on here in Britannicus. This is—um—Brutus Breamus, and General Claudia Grind, and Spartacus Norris. I’m Cassius Singhus.” He pushed his turban back a little, hoping the soldiers would believe it was a new Roman fashion.
“And the nearest garage is a thousand years away!” moaned Driver Grind.
“Bottomless swamps, poisonous insects, volcanoes, hot springs, earthquakes, and thunderstorms,” said Ravi. “Shall I say any more?”
“Well,” said Ravi, and then he thought about how ridiculous the truth would sound. “We had a flat tire.”
“Not the man who walked up the Amazon?” “I am that man,” said Tence modestly. “Not the man who rowed from Brighton to Bombay in the bathtub?” “I am that man,” said Tence, swelling with pride. “The man who sailed across the Pacific on a raft made from mahogany and shoelaces, and discovered the lost islands of Odium?” “No, I wasn’t that man, actually,” said Tence, deflating suddenly. “That was another man.
Bill signaled to the butler. “Give this gentleman twenty thousand dollars from the jar in the hall,” he said.
“Yes, Twist. I think something warm is called for—hot-water bottles, long underwear, and so forth. Chuck a lot of money into a suitcase too.”
“It’s about six thousand miles away. Here’s five thousand dollars to start with,” said Bill.
“It’s my wife, sir!” said the taxi driver sadly. “She says she’s not going to have me gallivanting about abroad without her to keep an eye on me.” “Sensible woman!” said Bill.
“Twist, just shove the lady’s luggage on the roof. Get in, madam. Are you a good cook? Splendid! I can’t boil an egg myself.”
“This isn’t the proper way to go exploring! You can’t just take someone’s wife along! Madam, there are abominable snowmen, and man-eating plants, and dangerous mountains and things like that where we’re going!”
“Search me,” said Tence. “When I first met him, he was driving camels. He is clearly a man of many talents.”
“You know what this is, don’t you? It’s a Joke Wheel. There must be a Joke Monastery up here—and Joke Monks.” He explained: “You see, they think the world was created as a joke, so everyone should give thanks by having a good laugh. That’s why they tie jokes to water wheels. Every time the wheel goes around, a joke goes up to heaven.”
“I forgot to add that they can do magic as well.”
(*In one photo, an abominable snowman is making bunny ears behind Tence’s head with his big paws. This always seems to happen when photos are taken of groups of people.)
Then they all shook hands and set off back to their camp. Twist was thinking relieved thoughts, and Tence was thinking excited thoughts, and Bill was thinking, I wonder how long it will be before the Joke Monks tell the last joke.
The mayor ordered the local printers to print lots of monster postcards and posters, and then he did what no mayor had done for ninety years—he sent a man up a ladder to repair the Town Hall clock—and for the first time in nearly a century Blackbury stopped living at ten minutes to three.
“I’m giving my notice, if it’s all right by you, sir,” said the groundskeeper, and sneezed. “Monstering isn’t my cup of tea, sir; it’s not what I was born and bred to do. Flowers and lawns, yes, but monstering, no.”
And he sent a man up the clock tower to stop the clock again.
And Blackbury, without the monster, went back to its sleepy ways when it was always ten minutes to three in the afternoon.
Then he thought: She’s got a point. I always wanted to be a train engineer when I was a little lad. I wonder what else I could do? So next morning he dusted off his old gray suit (he usually wore a red one with white fur here and there), and Mrs. Christmas made sandwiches for him, and then off he went to look for a job.
“They keep animals there, to help to understand them and save animals in danger of dying out. I imagine it’s great fun: just go and say I sent you, and they’ll probably even give you a uniform!”
“And you taught the hippos to fly. Very dangerous things, flying hippos.”*
(*Last seen heading over the English Channel in the direction of Africa. The hippos had gotten fed up with being studied and saved and decided to save themselves.)
Father Christmas filled the cone and looked at it in dismay. “That’s not very much ice cream,” he said, so he scooped two more big dollops onto the cone and added a wafer, two chocolate thingamajigs, and half a dozen cherries. “There,” he said, beaming. “You can have this for twenty cents.”
Being a sort of old-fashioned wizard, you see, he was very good at getting things to grow, and he quite enjoyed pottering about pruning and planting.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were six hundred years old?” he asked. “Is it important?” “Of course—you ought to be collecting Social Security! Come to think of it, you ought to get a bit for the five hundred thirty-five years you missed, too. That’d be thousands and thousands of dollars!”
