The Treasure of Mr Tipp

  For Angus with love

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The problem: My old bike. I am growing too big for it, but we can’t afford a new one as Dad is off work with a broken leg.

  The brainwave: Ask Mr Maini at the corner shop if he has a paper round so I can save up for some new wheels.

  The dilemma: There is a paper round, but it takes in Weir Street and I’ve heard that the people who live there are weird.

  The hero: Me, of course. Jonny Smith. I’m not scared – it’s only a paper round. And just how weird can the people in Weir Street be…?

  Chapter One

  I’m an ordinary sort of boy. I live in an ordinary house, with ordinary windows and doors. I have an ordinary dog, an ordinary cat and an ordinary goldfish. My family are ordinary, too, if you don’t count my little sister, Ellie, who could win Olympic medals if eating was a sport.

  I like ordinary things like football, computer games and school holidays. I’m not too keen on school, though, or my teacher, Miss Dodds. She thinks my head is full of nonsense. And she doesn’t believe me when I tell her about the extraordinary things that happen in Weird Street.

  I don’t think she’s ever been there. Or, if she has, she probably just whizzes up and down the hill in her car, thinking up difficult maths problems. I bet she doesn’t notice the people or the houses. But when I’m on my paper round, I notice the people and the houses, especially when they’re a little bit odd … like number 34 and a half.

  “Don’t you think that’s a strange number for a house?” I asked Mr Maini one day, as he wrote it on the corner of the newspaper.

  Mr Maini just shrugged. “Some people call their houses strange names, so why not strange numbers.”

  I didn’t argue with him, but number 34 and a half is a very odd house. It stands halfway up Weird Street and looks like it’s come from the pages of a storybook.

  The whole thing has been dug right out of the hillside, probably by a huge bulldozer. It has an old oak door covered in iron studs, with a big, iron bell, and its windows are made from the bottoms of bottles. Strangest of all is its flat roof, where vegetables grow. Rows and rows of them.

  The first time I saw the house I thought that a giant lived there. An untidy giant who kept broken fridges, and prams and washing machines in his garden.

  As I dodged around the junk on my way to the front door, I half expected to find a large beanstalk spiralling up towards the clouds, or a brown hen clucking about, laying golden eggs.

  No such luck. All I found was more junk. But I didn’t find a letter box. There wasn’t one on the door, so I yanked on the old bell instead.

  I heard a clang, then a muffled explosion came from inside the house.

  “What have I done?” I gasped.

  I quickly stuck the paper into an empty old milk churn and scurried away.

  “Who lives at number 34 and a half?” I asked Mr Maini when I handed back my bag. “I rang the bell and there was an explosion. Did I do something wrong?”

  Mr Maini smiled. “Oh no, that would just be Mr Tipp inventing something. He’s always making new things out of the rubbish people throw away.”

  Ah! That explained the noise and the junk in the garden.

  “Trouble is,” said Mr Maini, “sometimes Mr Tipp blows up bits of his house … and himself, too. He lost a door and half an eyebrow last week.”

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” I said.

  “You will,” smiled Mr Maini, and would say no more.

  Of course that made me really curious. I couldn’t wait to find out more about Mr Tipp and I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  Then one morning I got my chance.

  As I approached number 34 and a half, I saw that the old oak door was lying open. I know I should have just delivered the paper and left, but I didn’t. I tiptoed inside and found myself in a large, dimly lit hall.

  I peered through the gloom. YIKES! I was not alone! The hall was full of robots standing stiffly to attention. They were made entirely out of junk. Some of them had square faces, some had round, and the light coming from the bottle-bottom windows gave them an eerie, greenish glow. I looked at them, my eyes wide. And, what was really scary, they all seemed to look rightback at me.

  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.”

  Chapter Two

  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.

  Chapter Three

  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.”

  “I love your scarobot, Mr Tipp,” said Sara, staggering into the garden with a long plank of wood.

  “Have you invented lots of things?” gasped Surinder, clutching a box full of half-empty paint tins.

  “Quite a few,” smiled Mr Tipp. “I’m a bit busy right now, but come back on Saturday and I’ll show you some of my inventions.”

  “Great,” we agreed, and said goodbye.

  When I got home, Mum and Ellie were out, Noggin, our cat, was curled up on the sofa and Dad was hopping about on his crutches, trying to plug in a new toaster.

  “What have you done with the old one?” I asked.

  “It’s in the bin,” said Dad.

  I went outside and rescued it. “I know someone who would like this,” I said, and told Dad all about Mr Tipp.

  “I’ve seen him around town,” smiled Dad. “You can’t miss him, on that bike.”

  “We’re going to visit him on Saturday. I’ll take the toaster with me.”

  “Fine,” said Dad. “But right now, you need to take Brutus for his walk.”

  I got Brutus’s lead. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you up Weird Street and show you what a scarobot looks like.”

  But I couldn’t.

  When I got there, Bob had disappeared. Mr Tipp’s roof garden was empty.

  “That’s funny,” I said. “Bob was working perfectly an hour ago. Mr Tipp wouldn’t have taken him down for no reason. Something must have happened.”

  Something certainly had.

  Chapter Four

  “Health and safety. That’s what’s happened,” said Mr Tipp gloomily, when Sara, Surinder and I went over on Saturday. “Shortly after you left the other day, a silver car pulled up and Mr Gripe from the council knocked on my door. ‘That figure on your roof is dangerous’, he said. ‘It might fall and hurt someone. It must be removed’.”

  “Didn’t you tell him about the wet sand in the wellies?” I asked.

  Mr Tipp nodded. “I offered to replace it with concrete, but it was no use. Bob still had to come down. I’ll have to find another use for him. Perhaps I’ll put him at the gate to wave at passers-by… But I promised to show you some of my inventions, didn’t I. Would you like to come inside?”

  “Yes, please,” we chorused.

  The four of us headed for the house and stopped outside.

  “I’ll just ring for the butler,” smiled Mr Tipp. “This door used to belong to a ruined castle before I rescued it. The door, that is. Couldn’t get the castle into the trailer.”

  He yanked on the iron bell and this time there was a loud clank, followed by some slow, scraping metal noises. Then the door creaked open and Charlie stood there, wearing his red rubber glove.

  “You were right, Jonny,” grinned Mr Tipp. “Charlie is left-handed.”

  We went into the gloomy hall and Sara and Surinder’s mouths fell open when they saw the robots.

  “What do they all do?” asked Surinder. “Well,” said Mr Tipp, “my old legs and arms are getting a bit creaky, so they help me lift and carry things mostly. Though some of them have special jobs. Charlie’s in charge of opening and closing the front door, Ben sweeps the floor, and Alice, the one with the mop head, switches on the kettle for tea.”

  “What’s that over there?” asked Sara. She pointed to an old oil drum with a metal arm sticking out of it. Attached to the metal arm was a bone.

  “Ah,” smiled Mr Tipp. “That’s my cure for overweight dogs. “Watch.” He flicked a switch on the drum and the metal arm started going round and round. “The idea is that the dog chases the bone,” he grinned. “The bone will go round faster and faster till the dog’s had enough exercise. Then it stops and he gets his reward. Simple.”

  “I wonder if it works with chubby little sisters,”
I joked.

  “Now, come into my workshop,” said Mr Tipp. “I’ll show you my latest invention. I think you’ll like it.”

  We followed Mr Tipp through a small door at the far end of the hall and found ourselves in a very different kind of room. This one was brightly lit, with mirrors covering most of the walls. There were hall mirrors, dressing-table mirrors, even old wing mirrors.

  Mr Tipp smiled as we pulled faces in them. “It’s amazing the treasure people throw out,” he said. “The mirrors help to reflect the light. Now, have a look at this.”

  He led us to a big table, which was covered with test tubes and scientific instruments. Some coloured liquids bubbled and burped away quietly. I wondered what they were, and wished I’d listened more carefully in our science lessons.

  Mr Tipp uncovered a large white bowl. Inside was a spongy blue mixture smelling of peppermint.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Boomerang chewing gum,” beamed Mr Tipp. “Taste it.” And he pulled bits off and handed them to us. “It’s made mainly from the juice of the Sapodilla tree which grows in tropical America. It’s perfectly safe.”

  We popped the gum into our mouths. It tasted delicious.

  “Why do you call it Boomerang chewing gum?” I mumbled.

  Mr Tipp beamed even more. “Take it out of your mouth and throw it on the floor.”

  “What?”

  “Go on,” he instructed.

  I took out the chewing gum and dropped it at my feet. Immediately, it bounced back into my hand.

  “What did I tell you!” Mr Tipp jumped up and down in delight. “Boomerang chewing gum. Throw it away and it comes right back.”

  Sara and Surinder tried it out, too.

  “When you’ve finished chewing, you can play with it,” they giggled.