Poor Cecco/Chapter 17
Chapter XVII
THE LETTER FROM THE SKY
“You see,” explained Poor Cecco, “if Murrum happens to walk by here, and if he only happens to put his paw on that piece of wood, then this will pull that, and that this—and then the whole stick will fall down right on his back!”
“A lot of good that will do!” said Jensina.
They were in the garden, by the onion bed, looking at the trap which Poor Cecco had invented, while Harlequin stood by, well pleased with his share in the work.
“Anyway it will give him a good fright,” Poor Cecco retorted.
“Why did you put it here?’ Jensina objected. “Murrum doesn’t eat onions, does he?”
“Because it’s the only place where the earth is soft enough. You don’t seem to understand, Jensina,” he went on indignantly, “that it took ages digging that hole out!”
“I’ve known a lot of cats,” Jensina remarked, “but I’ve only known one that was an idiot, and he got drowned in the buttermilk pail!”
“I wonder where Bulka is?” said Poor Cecco after a moment, wishing to change the conversation.
“I thought I heard him calling a minute ago,” Harlequin replied. “Look, there he comes!” And he pointed down the garden path.
Bulka, when he left the house, had, after some search for a quiet nook, settled down with his armful of letters under the shade of a rhubarb plant. The rhubarb stems were tall; the broad leaves spread out like a tent, and beneath their shelter he felt secure from prying eyes. Spreading the letters out, he read them all through, one by one, and as he read his little heart trembled with emotion. Dear Tubby, what beautiful things she had written here and all for him alone!
He couldn’t sit still any longer; he must jump up and wander about in the sunshine and think of it all. With the precious letters, tied all together by a strong grass-blade, clutched close to his heart, he skipped along, up one border and down the next, paying no particular attention to where he was going and only thinking of his dear Tubby, when, just as he paused to give an extra skip and wriggle—ping!—something fell right on the top of his head!
It was the very letter which Tubby, as you will remember, had posted through the hole in the willow tree branch!
Certainly that letter had lost no time on the way.
Bulka rubbed his head, looked up at the green branches above him, down at the ground, and saw the letter lying there, addressed to him, on the garden path. His first thought was that it had somehow dropped from the packet in his arms. But no, the grass band was still unbroken; nothing was missing.
He opened the letter and read:
Dear Bulka:
I am in a funny place it is a house in a tree Murrum brought me It is lited with green lites—
When he had read as far as this Bulka started off at a run, across the herb borders, through the marigold thicket, up one path and down the next, calling loudly for Poor Cecco and Harlequin.
“I’ve got a letter from Tubby!” he cried breathlessly, when at last he caught sight of Harlequin’s head above the onion tops.
“We know,” Jensina said. “You told us. Goodness, Bulka, you’re out of breath!”
“It’s a new letter,” he told them. “It fell out of the sky!”
“Show me!” said Poor Cecco. And he read it aloud.
Plainly, if the letter were true, Tubby was in a tree. But which tree? They looked round. The whole garden was full of trees.
“Where did you find it?” Poor Cecco asked.
Bulka thought, staring about him, and his face grew doubtful. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It just fell on me.”
“But surely you remember? Where were you walking?”
“I was walking—I was walking everywhere!” said Bulka. Which was very nearly true. “I’d been all over the garden, and then it fell on me, and I ran—and I ran, and I couldn’t find you!”
“I call that silly!” said Jensina.
But Poor Cecco, seeing that Bulka was very near to tears—a thing that had not happened for a long time, for during his travels he had learned to be quite brave—said kindly: “Never mind, Bulka! Tubby’s in a tree, that we know, and we’ll hunt the garden over till we find her, if it takes us all night!”
All the others came running when they heard the glad news—even the Express Wagon rumbled along, in case he should be needed on ambulance duty—and together they set out to search the garden from end to end.
It took them a long while. They began with the smallest trees first—like the rose trees—because they were the easiest. Some of them were so small that it would hardly have been possible for the Easter Chicken, let alone Tubby, to have been hidden in them, but as Poor Cecco said, it was best to leave nothing untried. So at each one they peered and tapped and listened.
There was some discussion between Harlequin and the Wooden Engine as to whether the raspberry canes were trees or flowers, but this Poor Cecco decided. He said they were vegetables. While they ran to and fro among the garden beds the Express Wagon kept pace with them, as nearly as he could, on the path.
They all worked with a will. Anna got tangled in a fallen pea-vine. Bulka scratched himself in the currant bushes, but still they kept on, tapping and calling, till gradually the sun sank lower and the shadows began to lengthen.
It was nearly dusk when they found themselves, thoroughly disheartened, in the corner beyond the parsley bed. Suddenly Anna, whose upturned eyes were invaluable in a search of this kind, exclaimed:
“Isn’t that a tree?”
It was the willow, its huge grey trunk looming above them, grey and enormous. It was so big to their eyes that none of them before had even thought of it as a tree at all. Now, at Anna’s remark, they looked up. Certainly there were branches on it, and sprays of green leaves here and there.
“It’s a mountain,” said the Engine.
“No,” said Poor Cecco, “it is a tree. It has bark. But it is a much too large tree.”
“Do you suppose Tubby’s there?” Gladys whispered, overawed.
Bulka’s heart sank at the thought of Tubby, shut up in that enormous fortress. But he rushed up and began to pound on the rough grey bark.
There was no answer.
“We must try all the way round,” Poor Cecco said.
So all the way round they walked, tapping and listening. Suddenly Bulka, who had his ear glued to the trunk, cried, “Listen, all of you! I hear something!”
Instantly they all stood still. Somewhere within the tree could be heard a distinct answering tap.
“It’s Tubby!” cried Bulka. “It’s Tubby! Tubby,” he called, “is that you?”
Quite clearly he heard the tiny voice:
“Yes, Bulka!”
“Where are you, Tubby?” he asked.
And again the tiny voice whispered back:
“In Tubbyland, Bulka!”
“I told you!” said Gladys triumphantly. “I told you all along that’s where she was. Now at any rate we know where that wretched Tubbyland is!”
But the others paid no heed. They all had their ears to the tree—except naturally the Wooden Engine, who kept exclaiming: “What is she saying? What does she say?” and hopping up and down on his wheels with excitement.
“How can we get her out?” Harlequin asked.
How indeed? In vain they walked round and round the tree; there was no sign of a door anywhere, and of course they knew nothing of the hole in the top.
“We might tunnel underneath,” Poor Cecco said. And he began to dig, but his paws soon came against the hard roots, and he was forced to stop.
“Maybe she’ll eat her way out!” suggested the Lion hopefully.
No one thought this very likely. Harlequin stared at the tree, saying, “Hey Presto!” but as usual with no result.
“At any rate,” said Poor Cecco, “we won’t desert her!”
“We’ll stay by the tree all night!” declared the Lion.
And this they prepared to do, each at his station, leaning with their backs against the tree, while the Engine and the Express Wagon parked themselves side by side, within easy call, at the edge of the path.
Night fell; the moon shone out; every few minutes Bulka could be heard whispering: “Tubby, are you asleep? Good-night, Tubby!”
And in the branches above them a black form crouched, sleek and still. It was Murrum, thoroughly well pleased with his performance. There he sat, and stared down with pale contemptuous eyes on the faithful watchers gathered round the tree.
