Enid Blyton (10 page)

"I think I can," said Pink-Whistle. "Pulling hair—slapping— pushing and pinching—all the things a big boy does when he's a bit of a bully. But I suppose what you want my help for is about this bicycle business."

"Yes, please," said Geraldine. "Last week Jimmy was given a lovely new bike for his birthday, and promised to keep it clean—and two days ago Peter borrowed it, and left it out in the rain all night in a hedge. Now Jimmy's father has taken his bike away for a month because it looks dreadful!"

"Well, I think I can cure Peter," said Pink-Whistle. "Tell me the address of your school, please. And do have another bun. Don't waste them!"

"I've NEVER tasted such lovely buns," said Geraldine. "But I'm not going to take the last one, thank you very much."

She said good-bye and shook hands. Pink-Whistle took her to the gate, thinking how nice it was to meet children with good manners. You just couldn't
help
liking them!

Next morning Pink-Whistle made himself invisible, as he often did, and went along to find Geraldine's school. Ah—there it was—and there was the bicycle shed. Pink-Whistle looked at the bicycles—what a lot!

Plenty for that bad boy Peter to choose from!

Pink-Whistle went down the row of bicycles rubbing each back wheel and muttering something. Ah, he knew plenty of useful spells! He stood up straight and smiled. Now Peter, look out! If you take a bicycle to-day, you'll be sorry!

Well, Peter did, of course. He was out before any of the other children and ran to the shed. He picked out Benny's because it was nice and shiny. He was out of the school gate before anyone could stop him, riding at top speed!

He went down this road and that, on his way home—and then suddenly he looked astonished. He ought to be in Hacking Road—but he wasn't. He was in a road he didn't know at all. How could he have taken a wrong turning? He turned round and rode back to the corner. There was a sign-post there that Peter didn't remember at all. He stared at it in surprise.

It pointed four ways.

One way said "TO MR. WHACK." 

Another said "TO HARD WORK VILLAGE." 

A third said "TO THE DRAGON" 

And the fourth said "TO THE CROSSPATCH WITCH."

Peter couldn't understand it. He had never in his life seen the sign-post before. He didn't want to go to any of the people or places it pointed to. Good gracious! What was he to do? Had he lost his way?

He couldn't stay by the sign-post all day so he got on his bicycle again and rode off in the direction of Mr. WHACK. He didn't like Hard Work—he didn't want to meet a Dragon—and he certainly didn't like the sound of the Crosspatch Witch! He didn't much like Mr. Whack's name, either!

He was not at all pleased with Mr. Whack when he found him! He rode down the lane, round a corner, and came to a small house. He jumped off, meaning to ask his way home.

He knocked at the door—and out came a big man with a whippy little cane!

"Ha! " he said, "I'm Mr. WHACK, and I'm glad you've come to see me.

PETER DIDN'T REMEMBER THE SIGN-POST AT ALL.

 I've heard about you. You take bicycles, don't you? Hold out your hand!"

Peter didn't want to, but his hand held itself out—and then the other hand held itself out, too. Whack, whack, whack,—how that whippy little cane enjoyed itself! But Peter didn't. Like all bullies, he was a coward, and he howled loudly.

"There— that will do you a lot of good," said Mr. Whack. "Leave the bicycle. I'll see that it's returned to its owner. Go over that stile, and you'll see the way home."

Peter went off, still howling. He .climbed over the stile and went across the field. When he came to the other side he found, to his great astonishment, that he was in the lane that led to his home. He simply couldn't understand it.

He didn't take anyone's bicycle the next day. His hands smarted too much to hold bicycle handles! But the day after he took Geraldine's!

He raced out of the school gates on it, laughing to think of the little girl's anger and dismay when she found it was gone.

And will you believe it, the bicycle took him to the same sign-post as before!

There it stood, its four fingers pointing to MR. WHACK, HARD WORK

VILLAGE, THE DRAGON, and THE CROSSPATCH WITCH. Peter stared in horror.

How had he come here again? He couldn't imagine! Well, he wasn't going to Mr. Whack this time, that was certain. But he didn't want to go to Hard Work Village either—or to the Dragon or the Witch.

He decided to take the road that led to the Dragon. "It can't possibly be a
real
dragon", said Peter to himself. "There aren't any dragons now. It must be a hotel called the 'Dragon.' I'll ask there for my way home."

But, you know, it
was
a real dragon! As Peter rode on round the corner, he saw a gate right across the road, and beside it was a cave. He got off his bicycle to open the gate—and suddenly out of the cave came a dragon.

He looked very like the one that St. George fought long ago, but he had remarkably kind eyes.

"Wait!" he called, in a roaring voice. "Are you good or bad?"

"What do you mean?" said Peter. "And who are you? I don't believe in dragons. You're just somebody dressed up!"

"I'm not," said the dragon. "Ah—now I know you. You're Peter, the boy who takes bicycles, aren't you?"

Peter began to feel as if he was in a bad dream. "No. I don't take bicycles,"

he said, quickly. "Let me go through this gate, please, whoever you are."

"I can't," said the dragon. "Not until I've fought you."

"What do you mean! I don't fight dragons!" said Peter, scared.

"Well, you see, I'm a good dragon," said the dragon, "so I fight bad things and bad people.
Bad
dragons fight good people. You're bad, so I must fight you.

Look out for yourself!"

And the dragon ran at poor Peter, who turned and fled for his life! The dragon sat down and laughed. He was rather disappointed, too. He really was a very good and kind creature, and hadn't had a fight for years, but sometimes he felt he
would
like to hit out at something bad.

Peter fled down the road and came to a little wood. He saw a path there and raced down it, afraid that the dragon might be following him. And quite suddenly he came to a part he knew—how strange! Why, just down there and round to the left and he would come to a road he knew quite well! 

PETER GOT OFF HIS BICYCLE TO OPEN THE GATE.

HOW had he managed to get to that queer sign-post again?

Peter was very, very puzzled when he got home. What a horrid adventure! Why did the bicycles keep taking him to that sign-post instead of to his home? Was there a spell on him? He didn't believe in spells, but certainly something peculiar was about.

He remembered that little Geraldine had said she was going to ask Mr. Pink-Whistle for help. Well, he didn't believe in any Pink-Whistles either. But suppose—just suppose Geraldine
had
gone to him, wasn't this just the kind of thing that Pink-Whistle would do?

Peter went out into the garden to think. Should he ask Geraldine if she had found Mr. Pink-Whistle? No, she wouldn't tell him anyway.

"Oh, I wish I knew what was happening to me!" groaned Peter.

"Why do those bicycles take me the way I don't want to go? I believe it's all something to do with Mr. Pink-Whistle. I'd tell him a few things if he were here!"

"Well—I
am
here," said a quiet voice, and suddenly, in front of Peter, Mr. Pink-Whistle appeared bit by bit—first his head, then his hands and legs, then his body. It was really very strange. Peter didn't like it at all.

"Now tell me whatever you want to," said Pink-Whistle. "I'll listen."

"No. I don't want to say anything," said Peter.

"Not even about bicycles?" said Mr. Pink-Whistle. "I wonder whose bicycle you will take to-morrow, Peter—and where you will go? You're having some adventures, aren't you? You must enjoy taking those bicycles from the other children!"

"I don't! I don't! And I won't any more, either!" cried Peter. "I won't go to those horrible places, so it's no use your putting spells on the bicycles. I'll never touch one again! Never!"

"Peter! Who in the world are you talking to?" called his mother, coming into the garden. At once Mr. Pink-Whistle disappeared, and was quite invisible. Peter gave a gulp and ran indoors up to his bedroom.

Well, as you can guess, Peter never took anyone's bicycle again—and will you believe it, when his father offered him one of his own for his birthday, he said no!

"What! You've been pestering me for a bicycle for
three
years— and now I can buy you one, you say no!" said his father. "You don't mean it, surely?"

But Peter
did
mean it, and you can guess why he didn't want one. He was afraid it would take him to that peculiar sign-post again!

MR. PINK-WHISTLE AND 
THE SCRIBBLER

ONE day, when Mr. Pink-Whistle was sitting in his garden, he saw the front gate open, though he could see nobody there.

"Now, what------" he began, in surprise—and then he saw a tabby
cat slip
through the
gateway, shut the gate
behind him,
and run to
the back door.

"Ah—a friend of Sooty's, I suppose/' thought Mr. Pink-Whistle, and turned back to his book. Before he had read two pages, Sooty, his cat, came walking out to him, and behind him came the tabby cat, looking rather shy.

"Mr. Pink-Whistle," said Sooty, "this is a friend of mine—Paddy-Paws. He is a very good and honest cat—but he is most upset because somebody has been scribbling untruths about him on a wall."

"Dear me!" said Pink-Whistle, in surprise. "Well, Paddy-Paws, I wouldn't take any notice of that."

"It isn't so much himself he has come about as his little mistress, Fanny," said Sooty. "This boy who scribbles on walls writes horrid things about Fanny, too, and they make her cry. Paddy-Paws says she's sweet and kind, and he's most upset about it. He wants to know if you can help him."

"Yes, Mr. Pink-Whistle, sir," said the tabby, finding his tongue suddenly. "You do put wrong things right, don't you?"

"I try to," said Pink-Whistle. "But what is it you want me to do, Paddy-Paws?"

"Well, sir, stop this boy from scribbling more horrid things," said
the tabby cat.
"I'll take
you to
the wall
he scribbles on and
you'll
see the dreadful things he writes. Everybody can read them, sir, and they get very upset. But this boy is big and strong, and nobody can stop him." '

YOU DO PUT WRONG THINGS RIGHT, DON'T YOU ? " SAID THE TABBY.

"Well, I'll come along now," said Pink-Whistle, and he shut his book.

"Lead the way, Paddy-Paws!"

So Paddy-Paws led the way. Over a field, across a stile, down a lane, through a small village, along a high road and into another village. Pink-Whistle padded along behind him. Sooty had been left behind at home.

Paddy-Paws came to a wall—and there, written in different coloured chalks, were a great many horrid sentences. Pink-Whistle read them out loud. " 'Betty is a cry baby. Katie is a tell tale. George is a cowardly-custard.'" Pink-Whistle began to frown. "Dear, dear—what things to write for everyone to see! Most unpleasant!"