The Treasure of Mr Tipp Page 2

  Just then some white smoke starting curling up from the purple liquid in one of the test tubes.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The answer to smelly socks, I hope,” said Mr Tipp. “But it’s not quite right yet. When I sprayed it inside my socks, the local cats followed me for miles.”

  We grinned and followed Mr Tipp into the kitchen for tea. It was quite a normal kitchen, if you didn’t count the fact that when Mr Tipp pressed his remote control, Alice came in and switched on the kettle.

  We sat round the table with big mugs of tea and lots of chocolate biscuits, and talked about Mr Tipp’s amazing inventions. Then Mr Tipp had to get back to his cure for smelly socks, so he and Charlie waved us off from the big oak door.

  “What a pity Bob’s not allowed to wave from the roof any more,” I said.

  We collected our bikes and were just leaving when a large, silver car arrived and stopped outside the gate. A man with a briefcase got out and headed towards Mr Tipp.

  I saw Mr Tipp frown.

  “I bet that was Mr Gripe,” I said to Sara and Surinder. “I wonder what he wants now. I hope it doesn’t mean more trouble for Mr Tipp.”

  But it did.

  Chapter Five

  After our visit to Mr Tipp, we headed into town to spend our pocket money. At least Sara and Surinder did, I was still saving up for my new bike.

  We met Mum and Ellie and Gran in the shopping mall. Ellie was eating an ice cream while Mum and Gran signed a petition.

  “It’s for more bins in the town centre,” said Mum. “These ones are overflowing.”

  “And they smell,” declared Gran. “The streets are a disgrace. They weren’t like that when I was a girl.”

  Sara, Surinder and I giggled. It was hard to imagine my gran ever being a girl. Gran smiled, too, and gave us some money for ice cream. We raced each other to the café, and took ages to decide what flavour we wanted. Then we strolled around, licking our cones and checking out the latest trainers. Surinder was thinking about buying a pair with his birthday money and disappeared inside a shop. Sara was heading to the library, so I cycled home.

  Dad was just settling down on the sofa to watch some sport, but he listened carefully when I told him the story of Bob and Mr Gripe.

  “Bob could have been a danger,” he said.

  “But Bob’s been taken down, so why would Mr Gripe go back to see Mr Tipp?”

  Dad shrugged. His favourite football team had just appeared on the screen and he had other things to think about.

  But I didn’t. I thought about the mystery of Mr Gripe all weekend, and still couldn’t come up with an answer.

  I’ll get up extra early on Monday morning, I decided, and go and call on Mr Tipp. That way I’ll find out what’s going on.

  But when I arrived at number 34 and a half, Mr Tipp was already outside on his three-wheeler bike, with his trailer piled high.

  “You’ve been out rescuing treasure early today,” I said.

  Mr Tipp shook his head sadly.” Not rescuing, Jonny,” he said. “Getting rid off. I’ve got to take all this stuff to the dump. Mr Gripe was here on Saturday and he said I have to clear everything out of my front garden.”

  “But why?” I said. “It’s your garden.”

  “Health and safety again,” said Mr Tipp. “Someone might come to the house and trip over it. And he said there had been lots of complaints from the neighbours about the mess.”

  “Yours isn’t the only messy garden,” I said. “What about the shoulder-high grass next door?”

  But Mr Tipp just sighed and pedalled away.

  I popped his paper in the milk churn and carried on with my round. When I got to number 13, I bumped into Captain Cross-eyed.

  “Good morning, Jonny,” he said. “You look a bit glum. Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Mr Tipp,” I said, and told him the story.

  “That’s odd.” Captain Cross-eyed frowned. “I know Mr Tipp’s garden is a bit messy, but no one around here would ever complain. It’s far too useful. He’s always got spare parts for washing machines or lawn mowers, and he’s always fixing things for people, too. Mr Tipp’s a very kind and clever man.”

  “I know,” I said. “But now he thinks the neighbours are complaining about him and he’s really upset.”

  Then I had one of my brilliant brainwaves. That happens sometimes. I think I must have genius genes. I remembered the petition from Saturday. Perhaps the neighbours would sign something to get Mr Gripe to leave Mr Tipp alone.

  I asked Captain Cross-eyed what he thought.

  “Splendid idea,” he said. “You write out the petition and I’ll sign it. Better still, I’ll go round the neighbours with you and get them all to sign, too.”

  I grinned as I pedalled off. No one would dare to argue with an enormous pirate.

  I was in good time for school. That pleased Miss Dodds. I got all my maths problems correct, too. That pleased her even more. I scored a goal at football practice. That pleased Mr McGregor, who’d been threatening to drop me from the team. And I was pleased that we had art that afternoon. I like art. I’m quite good at it, so I don’t usually get into any trouble…

  Miss Dodds had pinned up a picture of Monet’s Water Lilies for us to copy, and I’d finished mine in record time. It was quite like Monet’s, except I had painted some large frogs on the lily pads.

  I was just waiting for them to dry, when I spotted a spare piece of paper.

  That would do for the petition, I thought. I could write it out while Miss Dodds was busy helping Sara. Sara is hopeless at art. She can’t even draw a straight line with a ruler.

  So I wrote out a petition like the one I had seen Mum and Gran sign. It said:

  I was very pleased with that “valuable member of the community” bit, as I’d heard my dad say it about Captain Cross-eyed. Then I started to illustrate the edges by drawing some of Mr Tipp’s robots. I put in Charlie, Ben, Mop-head Alice and Bob.

  “Jonny Smith, what are you doing?”

  Oh no! I hadn’t heard Miss Dodds approach.

  “Er, it’s a petition,” I said. “Captain Cross-eyed, who lives at 13 Weird Street, is going to take it round the neighbours with me. Mr Tipp, who lives at 34 and a half, is being asked by the council to clear up his garden because the neighbours are complaining about the junk… But they’re not. Mr Tipp’s an inventor who makes robots.

  That’s Charlie with his red rubber glove, who opens the front door; Ben, who sweeps the floor, though I’ve never actually seen him do that; and Mop-head Alice, who switches on the kettle. I’ve seen her do that. And that’s Bob, the scarobot I told you about last week…” When you didn’t believe me, either, I could have added.

  Miss Dodds gave me one of her looks. The one that can turn your belly to jelly. “If you persist with this silly storytelling, Jonny Smith,” she said. “I will have to speak to your parents about it at parents’ night. Have a think about it. The choice is yours.”

  YIKES!

  Chapter Six

  I put the petition in my pocket and cycled over to 13 Weird Street after tea. Captain Cross-eyed signed it, then we set off down the road.

  When we arrived at number 19, there was a lady dressed in a pink, spangly leotard, doing handstands in her garden.

  “That’s Ursula Bend. She used to be a circus acrobat,” whispered Captain Cross-eyed, as she began to spin cartwheels.

  “Must keep in shape,” she said, landing neatly in front of us. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  When we explained, she signed the petition right away.

  “I would never complain about Mr Tipp,” she declared. “He fixed my leaky drainpipe. Now it’s as good as new.” And we left her swinging round and round on a lower branch of a big oak tree.

  “A lot of interesting people live in Weird Street,” I said to Captain Cross-eyed, who just nodded and smiled.

  When we got to number 23, I pressed the bell. DING DONG! DING DONG! it boomed out, just li
ke Big Ben. It gave me such a fright, I nearly jumped out of my socks.

  “I should have warned you about that,” said Captain Cross-eyed. “Mr Woyka is a clockmaker and he’s a bit deaf.”

  An elderly gentleman with side whiskers opened the door. “Who are you?” he peered at me. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.”

  “We’re not selling anything, Mr Woyka. We just want you to sign a petition to help Mr Tipp,” bellowed Captain Cross-eyed.

  “A petition? I never sign anything without reading it. Come in. I must find my glasses.”

  We went inside. No wonder Mr Woyka could hardly hear anything, the whole house was full of clocks, tick-tocking, chiming or cuckooing. An elderly lady sat in a rocking chair by the fire, conducting an imaginary orchestra.

  “Rose,” bellowed Mr Woyka. “Have you seen my glasses?”

  Mrs Woyka did not reply, so Mr Woyka took off her headphones and asked again.

  “You had them on when you were looking at old Tom.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Woyka, and went over to the biggest of the grandfather clocks. He opened the case and felt inside. “Here they are. Must have slipped off when I wasn’t looking.” He put on a pair of very thick glasses and read the petition. “Of course I’ll sign this,” he said. “Mr Tipp makes the spare parts to keep old Tom going.” He patted the clock affectionately. Then he gave the petition to his wife to sign, too.

  “Right,” said Captain Cross-eyed, when we left. “Now let’s go to number 36 and see if Dr Sphinx is around.”

  “Number 36,” I gulped. “That’s the house with the shoulder-high grass. I have to go there on my paper round. I’m sure wild animals live there.”

  Captain Cross-eyed just laughed.

  I felt a bit braver opening the gate with a large pirate by my side. But not much. I could hear strange rustling sounds in the undergrowth.

  “Here, Tiger,” called Captain Cross-eyed.

  Tiger?

  A large cat with a stripy tail slid out of the long grass and wound himself round the captain’s leg.

  “Dr Sphinx has a lot of cats, but Tiger’s my favourite.”

  More and more cats appeared until the captain and I were surrounded. Then the undergrowth rustled again and a man emerged. He wore jodhpurs, a shirt with lots of pockets, and a strange kind of hat.

  “Dr Sphinx,” said Captain Cross-eyed. “This is my young friend, Jonny Smith, and we need your help.”

  “Always happy to help,” said Dr Sphinx, and listened to our story.

  “It will be a pleasure to sign the petition,” he said. “When Inca lost one of her legs in a car accident, Mr Tipp made her a new one. Look…”

  I looked, and noticed for the first time that one of the cats had an artificial leg with a little wheel on the end.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Inca thinks so,” smiled Dr Sphinx. He signed his name with a squiggle then disappeared back the way he had come.

  It was the same at every house – the neighbours were very happy to sign their names. Even Miss King, with the very neat garden at number 57, agreed. None of them had complained about Mr Tipp’s messy garden.

  “So Mr Gripe told Mr Tipp a lie,” I said. “My teacher says lying’s very, very bad.”

  “It is,” agreed Captain Cross-eyed. “Unless there’s a very good reason for it.”

  “What reason could there possibly be?” I asked.

  I was about to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, I took the petition round to Mr Tipp.

  “It’s bound to cheer him up,” I said to Mum and Dad, as I grabbed an apple and jumped on my bike.

  But it didn’t.

  “It was very nice of the neighbours to sign this, Jonny,” he said sadly. “But it’s too late. This has just arrived.”

  He handed me a letter.

  “It says my house is a danger to health and safety,” he explained. “The council want to pull it down and put me in an old people’s home. They don’t think I can look after myself properly any more.”

  “But that’s crazy,” I said. “Anyway, you’ve got Charlie and Ben and Alice to help you…”

  “Try explaining that to the council.”

  “I will,” I said. “Or at least my dad will. Just you wait and see.”

  Mr Tipp smiled, but I could see he wasn’t convinced.

  Dad wasn’t convinced, either. “If he really does need looking after, Jonny,” he said quietly. “I don’t think this petition will work.”

  “Sometimes they do,” said Gran, who had come over for tea. “The one we signed the other day did. I heard from my friend, Mrs Bone, that we’re going to get more bins in the town centre. Pity that won’t help the mess the chewing gum makes on the pavements, though. Costs the council a fortune to clean that up.”

  “Mrs Bone?” I said. “Haven’t I met her?”

  Gran nodded. “She often presents the prizes at your school summer fête. Her husband owns the sweet factory.”

  That’s when it hit me.

  “Gran,” I yelled. “You’re a genius. I must get my genius genes from you!”

  Thanks to Gran, I had just had another of my brainwaves.

  I explained it to my family at length.

  “Hmm, it might just work,” said Dad. “Mr Bone’s always on the look-out for new ideas. Shall we give it a try?”

  “Anything to help Mr Tipp,” I nodded, and crossed my fingers, my toes and my eyes.

  Dad phoned Mr Bone and told him all about the Boomerang chewing gum. Mr Bone was very interested, and said he would like to meet Mr Tipp. So Dad phoned Mr Tipp and a meeting was arranged at number 34 and a half the next afternoon.

  “Can I come, too?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Dad. “It’s all your idea.”

  After school, I cycled over to Weird Street. Dad and Mr Bone were sitting outside number 34 and a half in Mr Bone’s big car.

  “We waited for you,” smiled Dad. “Jonny, meet Mr Bone.”

  “Hello, Jonny,” said Mr Bone, and held out a long, skinny hand. “Your dad’s been telling me all about you. You’re obviously a clever lad.”

  Tell that to Miss Dodds, I thought.

  We walked up to the house and I yanked on the big iron bell. After a few moments we heard some slow, scraping metal noises.

  “That’s Charlie, the butler,” I said.

  Charlie opened the door and we went inside.

  “Come in, come in,” said Mr Tipp, who was in the hall taking off Bob’s wellies. “He doesn’t need these now. I have to take him apart.”

  “Don’t do that!” I cried. “Not yet. Not till you hear what my dad’s got to say.”

  “Well, it was all Jonny’s idea,” smiled Dad, as he introduced Mr Bone. “As I told you on the phone, we’re here to talk about your Boomerang chewing gum.”

  “Come through to my workshop,” said Mr Tipp, and led the way. He went to the big table, uncovered the white bowl, and handed out chunks of the Boomerang chewing gum.

  Mr Bone sniffed several times and then popped the chunk in his mouth. He chewed on the gum for ages, then took it from his mouth and threw it away.

  “Fantastic!” he cried, when it bounced right back into his hand. “I would definitely be interested in buying the recipe for this, Mr Tipp. There’s a real market for it, I’m sure. But you’d need to make the chewing gum to begin with. I don’t have room in my factory right now.”

  “Sorry.” Mr Tipp shook his head sadly. “But I’d need my workshop to do that and the council say I have to leave my house.”

  Mr Bone smiled. “My wife is on the council. I’ll tell her you’re engaged in important scientific work that could help keep the streets clean. I’ll tell her you must not be disturbed.”

  “So I’d never need to see Mr Gripe again?” beamed Mr Tipp.

  “No,” smiled Mr Bone.

  Mr Tipp was delighted to be left in peace to get on with his inventions.

  I w
as delighted, too. Mr Tipp had given me a whole bowl of Boomerang chewing gum. “Sell it to your friends and put the money towards your new bike, Jonny,” he said. “You deserve it.”

  “Thank you,” I grinned.

  I took the chewing gum into school the next day, and told everyone about it.

  “But how do we know it really comes back to you?” asked Peter Ho.

  “I’ll prove it,” I said. Then I took a piece from my mouth and threw it at the classroom door.

  But at that moment, the door opened and Miss Dodds came in. The chewing gum bounced off her nose and right back into my hand.

  Miss Dodds held her nose and glared at me. “I hope you have a good explanation for this, Jonny Smith,” she said. “And I want the truth. Not one of your fantastic tales.”

  Oh, help! Here we go again…

  WeirD Street

  Just how weird can the people in Weir Street be? Join Jonny on all his adventures…

  First published 2009 by

  A & C Black

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

  www.acblack.com

  This electronic edition published in April 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  eISBN 978 1 4081 6371 9

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the

  British Library.