the incredible treasure hunt a bedtime story (with

THE INCREDIBLE TREASURE HUNT

A Bedtime Story (With Pictures)

Denes Bolza

© 1996 Denes Bolza

1 copyrighted material

Chapter One

It is early morning in Doodletown. The sky is up, the sun is singing, the birds are blue. Doodie Doodle, a fresh-faced doodle with a mind like a top and a head that’s easily set to dancing, is at home, in his kitchen, doodling up his favourite breakfast – doodleflakes, of course! Just then, in walks his good friend, Doodlebug. The two give each other a kick on the shins. (That’s the way you greet one other in Doodleland.)


Doodlebug is a tubby little doodle, the sort found in textbooks used by mathematics teachers. Doodlebug has a sharpener for a nose, and his feelers end in tiny hands. These keep his pork-pie hat attached firmly to his head. Doodlebug is wearing a broad smile, which he dares anybody to steal, and looks the very picture of adventure with his monocle, miner’s lamp, nautical almanac, vegetable peeler, inflatable stilts, darning needle and tennis racquet. For today, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug have decided to go on an Incredible Treasure Hunt. “Excuse me,” Doodlebug interrupts pointedly, “but this is not a tennis racquet. It’s a giant swatter. I’m told the pop-up swamps are full of fearsome stinging insects.” “I beg your pardon?” says Doodie Doodle, emptying an entire doodleflakes packet into his bowl (either he is extremely hungry or the packet is a small one). “What are you talking about? Pop-up swamps indeed!” The swamps of course exist only in Doodlebug’s mind. Which is entirely excusable as he’s never been on an Incredible Treasure Hunt and so has no idea what to expect.

Doodie Doodle hasn’t been on an Incredible Treasure Hunt either – something which, with a great deal of practice, he has become rather good at. Because he always knows the question to any answer, he asks what the darning needle is for. “It’s in case I get holes in my socks from all the walking,” replies Doodlebug. “But you don’t wear socks!” “I said it’s in case!” Doodie Doodle raises his eyebrows, but is in too sprightly a mood to argue. He sits down with his breakfast bowl at a table, and then points to Doodlebug’s vegetable peeler. “Are we going to hunt for potato salad?” he queries. “Of course not,” explains his friend. “It’s just that I don’t possess a machete with which to slash our way through the webs of fantasy.”


“You’re imagining things,” sniffs Doodie Doodle. Without further ado, he picks up his spoon and starts eating. Now that all eyes are on Doodlebug, he pulls out the inflatable stilts. “Do you want to know why I’ve bought these along?” he asks. “You tell me,” says Doodie Doodle, preparing himself for another mouthful. “They’re to help us find our way through any maze of tall stories.” “Naturally,” remarks Doodie Doodle. He doesn’t dare ask why his friend needs a miner’s lamp. It’s bound to be for something equally as obvious! Suddenly, it dawns on Doodlebug that Doodie Doodle hasn’t had his breakfast yet. “You’re not ready to go?” exclaims Doodlebug. “Don’t tell me! After I made a point of coming straight to it. And being nice and early. I was so keen to start that I didn’t even dawdle to doodle – or draw – a single breath on the way.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be finished in a few minutes,” replies Doodie Doodle. He shovels more doodleflakes into his mouth, wondering why Doodlebug is wearing a monocle. “To look like a treasure hunter, of course,” replies Doodlebug, reading his friend’s thoughts. (This isn’t as difficult as may first appear.) “But you don’t have to look like a treasure hunter to be one,” retorts Doodie Doodle. “It’s enough being what you are. How you look doesn’t make you more so.” “Yes, it does,” insists Doodlebug. “Otherwise how will anyone else know? After all, we have to think of our readers. That’s what the editor of the Doodletown Yodel told me anyway. Once we’ve found the treasure, he’s going to take a photograph of us and put it on the front page under the headline ‘Treasure Discovered – Doodlebug And Partner Strike It Rich!’ Which reminds me,” adds Doodlebug, “the editor says we have to find the treasure by five o’clock this afternoon if our story is to make the deadline for tomorrow morning’s newspaper.” Doodie Doodle doesn’t know anything about that. “Doodlebug,” he says with the patience of a blotter absorbing a well-meaning but fairly obstinate splotch of ink, “while it’s unwavering faith like yours that will make the Incredible Treasure Hunt the success it is meant to be, I feel it only fair to inform you before we begin that treasure doesn’t lie around waiting to be conveniently found moments before a newspaper photographer’s shutters click closed for the day. Treasure happens ... When and If. It is not there to be discovered with the regularity of a railway timetable.” “Unless it’s clockwork treasure, of course!” says Doodlebug with chipper confidence. Doodie Doodle doesn’t know anything about that either. He chooses to say no more, filling the space in his mouth instead with the remaining doodleflakes in his bowl. In the meantime, Doodlebug puts down his vegetable peeler, miner’s lamp, nautical almanac, inflatable stilts, swatter and darning needle. Then he reaches for the scabbard at his belt and, from it, removes a pencil. He and Doodie Doodle take their pencils with them wherever they go. The reason for this is quite simple: in Doodleland, whenever you want something, you doodle it. That’s why Doodleduddlians always keep their pencils sharp, bright, alert and, above all, extendible (to doodle those things they can’t reach, like apples in a coconut tree). For the umpteenth time that morning, Doodlebug sticks his pencil up his nose (taking care not to poke it into his eyes) and sharpens it a teensy bit more. Then he checks his rubber (attached with a rip-cord to his chest), and he also has a spare one, his Emergency Rubber, in case of emergencies – but he’s keeping that under his hat. Satisfied that everything is in tip-top condition, he once more gathers up the vegetable peeler, miner’s lamp, nautical almanac, inflatable stilts, swatter and darning needle. By now, Doodie Doodle has finished eating. He gets up from the table and, walking past Doodlebug, takes his bowl and spoon over to the kitchen sink. There, piled one on top of the other in a rickety tower that almost reaches the ceiling, are pots and pans and plates and cups and saucers and dishes and knives and forks and spoons and finger bowls and the odd gravy boat or two. Lamentably, Doodie Doodle hates washing up. Unperturbed, he tosses the breakfast bowl and spoon onto the top of the pinnacle of neglect – and is about to turn away when, to his and Doodlebug’s horror, the whole column starts to topple, aiming directly at the two Doodleduddlians standing below.


Doodlebug’s feelers throw up their hands in alarm. “Watch out!” he yells, leaping aside, out of harm’s way. The sudden jolt causes his hat to tip off his head ... and the Emergency Rubber falls out, landing at Doodie Doodle’s feet. Reacting like lightning, Doodie Doodle snaps up the rubber. In the nick of time, he erases the floor (onto which the washing-up is about to smash into smithereens) and then too bounds clear, having saved the day. Why? Because now the washing-up has nothing to fall onto! As a result, nothing gets broken – only the fall! “Wha-a-at!?” gasps Doodlebug with astonishment, his monocle popping off onto its pendulum. Still clutching the vegetable peeler, miner’s lamp, nautical almanac, inflatable stilts, tennis racquet and darning needle, he scoops up his hat from what’s left of the kitchen floor. Securing the hat safely on his head, he then points incredulously at the washing-up (now frozen in motion in front of him) and cries, “How on earth did you stop everything from falling into the...” “No-o!” cries Doodie Doodle. “Don’t say it!” But it is too late. “...hole?” blurts out Doodlebug. No sooner said – and believed – when the hole becomes one, assuming its shape in the way it behaves. First nothing (being nothing) stops everything. Now nothing (being something) stops nothing. Everything (the washing-up) continues to tumble down, falling into a bottomless pit. Startled, Doodie Doodle jumps back, grabbing a usually useless dishwasher for support (he has yet to discover how to doodle electricity). Unfortunately, he accidentally lets go of the Emergency Rubber, which too falls into the hole, following the last of the porringers. “My rubber!” cries Doodlebug, lunging forward to try to save it. In doing so, he inadvertently drops the miner’s lamp, nautical almanac, vegetable peeler, tennis racquet, inflatable stilts and darning needle. These, like the Emergency Rubber, vanish into the hole, never to be seen again. “Waaa!” wails Doodlebug, wringing his feelers in despair. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve lost my Emergency Rubber! You should have used your own rubber! Then none of this would have happened!” “Well, you shouldn’t have called the hole a hole!” yowls Doodie Doodle in return. “It wasn’t a hole before you said it was! It was nothing! And that’s what it should have remained! Only you made it something! And now we’ve lost everything! Anyway, I had to use your Emergency Rubber! This was an emergency!” “It wasn’t! It was a Crisis! For that I have a Crisis Rubber – which I’ve gone and left at home! Oh, what a Catastrophe!” Doodlebug stares with dread into the hole before him, shuddering. “It’s a wonder we didn’t fall in there along with everything else!” he exclaims. “No chance,” remarks Doodie Doodle firmly, convinced he is in the right and feeling all the more confident for it. “Don’t forget, we’re supposed to go on the Incredible Treasure Hunt. That’s already been decided. We can only do what’s expected, no more.” “But I’m telling you, had we fallen into this terrible hole it would have been the end of us!” “Oh, never mind,” sighs Doodie Doodle, “it doesn’t really matter. The main point is we’re both all right. Now let’s fix up this mess so that we can go on our treasure hunt.” So saying, he pulls a pencil out of a cinnamon stick jar and starts doodling boards over the hole in the kitchen floor. Screwing in his monocle, Doodlebug dots in the nails. In no time at all, the kitchen floor looks the same as before. Putting the unfortunate incident behind him, Doodie Doodle jabs his pencil into a sharpener, which he straps like a quiver onto his back. That done, he and Doodlebug step outside into the bright sunshine. Doodie Doodle locks the door of his pencil-box house (it has a pretty slate roof), leaving a window slightly ajar in case he loses the key. Then the two friends set off on the Incredible Treasure Hunt, walking down the garden path and out onto the wide, beckoning road.


Chapter Two

The countryside lies before Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug like the pages of an open book, filled with the promise of adventure. Except that, having come so far, they now don’t know how to get past. So, they look up and down the road instead. “Which way do we go?” asks Doodie Doodle. “I say this way,” says Doodlebug, pointing. “Why?” “It gives my hand something to do.” “No, I mean why should we go that way and not this?” retorts Doodie Doodle, finding himself pointing in the opposite direction. “Because I said so first.” “I knew you’d say that.” “But I didn’t. What’s wrong with you? That’s what you said! I said this!” For a few baffled moments, the two Doodleduddlians stand there, undecided. “That’s how I see the problem anyway,” says Doodlebug. “Touché,” replies Doodie Doodle, still failing to understand why he can. Neither of them moves. “A penny for your thoughts,” says Doodlebug eventually. “Thanks. I was thinking if perhaps we should flip a coin to decide whether to go left or right. So which way is it then: heads or tails?” “Tails,” says Doodlebug. Doodie Doodle imagines the spin. “Well, what do you know, tails it is,” he replies. He points up the road. “Then this is the way we go.”


Thus it is with a smart spring in their step and a lilt to their hearts that they march off, singing “Jolly old Saint Nicholas ... always wants to tickle us”. Before they realise it, however, they come to an abrupt full stop (identical to the one here). “Whoa!” says Doodlebug, grabbing Doodie Doodle. “I’ve just realised something: we haven’t got a map. Treasure hunters always have maps. The maps indicate where the treasure is buried. Otherwise how do you know where to look?” “Ah,” replies Doodie Doodle. “Of course. A map. It’s funny you should mention it but I was coming to that.” He takes a step forward. “Here we are – and there you go,” he says, doodling a map and giving it to Doodlebug. To Doodie Doodle’s surprise, his friend scrunches up the map into a ball and throws it onto the ground, where he stamps all over it. “That’s better,” retorts Doodlebug, surveying his handiwork. Doodie Doodle can’t believe his eyes – or ears. “Better?” he cries. “Have you gone mad? You’ve thrown away our only map after complaining that we didn’t have one!” Doodlebug picks up the crumpled map and smooths it out. “I’m not throwing this away,” he explains. “I’m making it more authentic! For goodness’ sake, whoever heard of a spotlessly clean map? Real treasure maps are always rumpled and grubby and tatty. And the more rumpled and grubby and tatty they are, the more they’re worth their fortune!” He takes a fresh squiz at the map, exclaiming a bit too heartily for Doodie Doodle’s liking, “Ho, ho, ho ... and what have we got here?” “You tell me,” says Doodie Doodle testily, not about to commit himself without knowing how much of a barrel-full is required. Which is perhaps just as well because Doodlebug soon discovers that there’s more to being real than just being. “Where’s the X?” he asks, scanning the map intently. A crackling frown adds to the severity of the situation. “This map is still spotless! That’s no good. Maps of buried treasure always have a spot marked X. That shows where the treasure is buried. Without the treasure, there can be no spot. Without the spot, there can be no treasure hunt. Without the treasure hunt...” “Yes, yes, yes,” grumbles Doodie Doodle rather somewhatish, grabbing back the map. “I’ll doodle you a cross!” He peers at the battered piece of paper. “...Now where did I see that spot again?”


However, try as he might he cannot decide where to put it. The truth is the doodle does as is and what it becomes is often not what it is meant to be. At a loss, Doodie Doodle straightens himself, wondering aloud, “If I doodle the spot X anywhere on the map, the treasure might not be there but in the next place. And there’s no point in searching for treasure where it isn’t.” He bends his mind back to the map, studying it for clues as to where the X should go. “Unless of course I cover the map with spots marked X,” he mutters. “That way one of them is bound to be correct, what with treasure having to be buried Somewhere Out There. We only have to make sure the cross we’re searching for is the one we’re after.” Relying on such impeccable wisdom to sustain him till bedtime each night, Doodie Doodle covers the map with crosses. Then he and Doodlebug have another good look at it, the way X-perts would. Doodlebug is the first to break the silence. Still studying the paper before them (much the same way you are), he says, “I can’t see the map for all the crosses.” To which Doodie Doodle replies (still staring too), “Neither can I.” They continue to stare at the crosses. By now they are seeing spots before their eyes. Doodlebug clears his throat. “I think,” he says categorically, “that you’re holding the map ... upside down!” Doodie Doodle groans. Old Macdoodle, the farmer, always advised him never to put all his Xs in one basket! “What we need is one more cross, not less!” he exclaims, and he puts the biggest, blackest cross right through the map. Then he scrunches it up into a ball and throws it onto the ground, where he stamps all over it. “That’s better,” he says, satisfied with the result. “Better?” cries Doodlebug, agog with disbelief. “What have you done? Now you’ve thrown away our only map! That’s ripe old bananas coming from you. After all, it was your idea to go on the Incredible Treasure Hunt in the first place!” Then the truth strikes him, and it is beautiful. He smiles at his friend, winking broadly. “Oh, I get it! You want to bury the map right here! Then this can be our spot marked X and we can go away and come back to dig it up, just like real treasure hunters!” Yet, despite his excitement, Doodlebug remains troubled by one minor detail. “Isn’t it easier to dig a hole in the ground using your hands, not your heels?” he asks tentatively. Before Doodie Doodle can point out Doodlebug’s bonce with a lump on the end of a piece of wood, a voice unexpectedly booms out at them from the trees by the side of the road: “Oi! Littering is an offence punishable under Section Twelve (a), Paragraph Eight, Sub-section Nineteen, Clauses Three to Eleven of the Clean Ears and Sunny Disposition Act of 1952!” And out of the woods looms Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory of the Doodletown Police Patrol (he being the only one). Police Constable Perfunctory is disguised as an indigenous creeper. As up to now he has so readily shown. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug get such a start upon seeing the policeman that they jump into each other’s arms. (If only you could have seen it!) Doodlebug is the first to recover his composure. He is all for going up to the policeman and kicking him on a shin, but Doodie Doodle thinks better of it. “Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory doesn’t look in too friendly a mood,” he hisses under his breath. It is just as well that Doodlebug heeds his friend’s advice, for the policeman marches straight up to the pair with a sombre look on his face. “Littering is an offence!” he glowers, wanting to hear himself closer this time. “Pick up your litter at once and put it in the litter bin!” He points to an empty space at the side of the road. “But there’s nothing there,” suggests Doodlebug, hopefully helpfully. “I know that, ninny!” retorts Mother Perfunctory’s dear little Peregrine. “You have to doodle up a litter bin, don’t you! Then you throw your litter in it! Simple, innit! If you use your brains!” It is a well-known fact that the policeman leaves the key to the Doodletown jail under the Welcome mat. Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory empties his little black notebook of leaves but is unable to find a single page to write on. Also, his regulation pencil has taken root in a back


pocket. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug breathe a sigh of relief. Now the policeman won’t be able to take down their names. Civil liberty regulations prohibit him from using civilian pencils. Grumbling to himself, Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory uses a tendril to mark an X by the roadside. As crosses go, it is nothing for treasure hunters to get excited about, especially as it is known to indicate only a litter bin – even if the spot is one among many shown on the discarded treasure map lying in the dust. Obediently, Doodie Doodle takes out his pencil and doodles a litter bin, where he has been shown. To his astonishment, however, this causes Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory even greater displeasure. “Dimwit!” cries the bucket-headed policeman. “You’ve made the bin much too big! By law, it has to be the size of a brown paper bag – otherwise how do you expect it to be taken away!” “Taken away?” asks Doodie Doodle, puzzlement doodled all over his face. “By who?” “The litter collectors (first class) of course!” thunders Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory. “Oh bother,” says Doodlebug, surveying the results. “Now my monocle’s shattered.” He blinks like barney at the policeman, before prising open his mouth to ask, “Why do the litter collectors…” “First class!” “...have to take away the litter bins?” “Why?” bellows Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory. His creeper has blight. He keeps dropping leaf litter. “Well, where are your manners, boy! If everyone went around doodling litter bins and the litter collectors (first class) weren’t meant to collect them, then the countryside would be littered with litter bins. Wouldn’t it! And we can’t have litter bins littering the countryside. Can we! Littering is an offence punishable under Section Nine...” “Excuse me,” interrupts Doodie Doodle, always one to leave his vegetables till last, “but why doesn’t everyone simply rub out their litter? Then you wouldn’t need litter bins, which in turn wouldn’t litter the countryside. I dare say this would save lots of trouble all round.” Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory almost falls out of his trellis when he hears this. “Don’t be an ignoramus!” he implodes. “If everyone rubbed out their litter, there’d be nothing left for the litter collectors (first class) to collect!” Confronted with Doodie Doodle’s seeming disregard for the basic requisites of work preservation, the policeman grinds his teeth stonily. Doodie Doodle sighs (each time getting better at it). He thinks, “I should have known more than to presume. Perhaps the morning would have been more profitably spent staying at home and counting my sock garters.” Using the rubber on his pencil, Doodie Doodle rubs out the original litter bin and doodles a smaller one – into which Doodlebug solemnly tosses the cabbaged map. “Now don’t let me catch you littering again – or else!” warns Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory, waving away the two Doodleduddlians. Mumbling their apologies, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug hurry off without even kicking the policeman goodbye on the shins. When they are out of earshot, Doodie Doodle exclaims, “What a palaver! Over a silly bit of paper!” “Yes,” agrees Doodlebug, “what a pavlova! I thought of rubbing out the finger Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory kept waggling at us but it never stood still long enough!”

Chapter Three

The two companions turn their attention to pursuing the Incredible Treasure Hunt once more. “Where do you think is the best place to start?” asks Doodie Doodle. “The first square, I guess,” says Doodlebug, doodling a Doodleduddlian-size board game and a die with only three sides (he can never quite get the fourth one in). The objective of the game is: the first one home gets to play again. However, Doodie Doodle finds that it is impossible to roll the die.


“That’s the trouble with living in a two-dimensional world,” he grumbles. “If we’re not careful, we’re going to be stuck here forever!” Disgruntled, he rubs out the board game and the die. “This should help to get us going,” he says, doodling a “Beware Of The Bull” sign and immediately running away from it. Map-less, yet nevertheless direction-bent, the two adventurers hurry off, casting worrying glances over their shoulders. (To make up for lost time, they skip a few paragraphs and take a short cut through the trees, not even bothering to go around them.) At last, the hunt for treasure is on once more!

Without wasting time, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug start to peer under rocks, poke about in gullies, examine the poky bits inside bushes and scratch around the tops of knolls. Unfortunately, the treasure-seekers turn up precious little. Even at an abandoned wishing well in a glade, all they find is a rusty doodle spring and some ants arguing with worms over whether to go fishing or to have a picnic. At one stage, Doodie Doodle spots a burrow in a sandbank and crawls inside to investigate. However, the entrance collapses and a large log rolls down over it, blocking his way out and trapping him under the ground. “Help!” his muffled voice cries. “Get me out!” Doodlebug stops pouring tea for the two of them and says, “Oh really, Doodie Doodle! I’m supposed to be digging up treasure, not you!” He tries to shift aside the log but it is much too heavy. Not about to waste a golden opportunity (particularly at elevenses), he doodles the log to look like an enormous Swiss roll – and breaks off a piece to help his friend out. As a result, Doodie Doodle has to eat his way to freedom, while Doodlebug already has a taste of it. Doodlebug sits back against a rock. His feelers fan his brow gently with a handkerchief. “Sugar?” he calls out to Doodie Doodle. “I can’t remember now, do you take one doodle lump or two?” He picks up his cup and drinks from it. Thinking (inevitably he finds it works best that way), Doodlebug has a brain wave (perhaps described more accurately as a tidal flow). He suddenly realises how to make the Incredible Treasure Hunt so easy that even the stupidest Squeekypeek could do it with its mouth hanging open (and we all know how stupid those Squeekypeeks are). Hurriedly draining his cup, Doodlebug rushes over to the burrow, yapping with excitement, “Doodie Doodle, I’ve got an excellent idea! Instead of looking for treasure, let’s doodle our own! It’d be so much simpler – and loads more fun, deciding on what we want to find! Then we’d be certain to get our photo in tomorrow’s edition of the Doodletown Yodel. After all, I wouldn’t want to miss being there! Later, we can go to my house and I’ll show you how my new noodle pencil doodles alphabet soup.” Out of sight, on the other side of the Swiss roll, Doodie Doodle chokes at Doodlebug’s suggestion, finding it hard to swallow. “You can’t be serious!” he sputters. “If we doodle our


own treasure, the Incredible Treasure Hunt won’t be so incredible!” His cheeks bulge with indigestion and jam. “Then let’s call it the Incredible ‘Easy’ Treasure Hunt,” suggests Doodlebug, swept along by the sheer bedazzlement of his plan. “Don’t be silly!” scoffs Doodie Doodle (in between scoffing). “You jolly well know we’re after real treasure. Like gold and diamonds!” “Real treasure! Oh yes! Rabbity-ray!” echoes Doodlebug, drumming it up for his friend’s sake and trying to sound as enthusiastic. “How fantastic!” he exclaims … and then stops to ask, “What are golden diamonds?” With a final bevel of his jaw, Doodie Doodle breaks through the remaining retaining Swiss roll, relieved to be climbing out into the fresh air at last. He stands up and brushes himself off. “Crumbs,” he says, looking at Doodlebug. “I didn’t realise you didn’t realise. Then I’d better explain what we’re after.” He whips out his pencil and doodles a bar of gold. “Gold!” he cries. He doodles a swag of diamonds. “Diamonds!” he cries. Then he jangles the lot under Doodlebug’s nose as if egging on a tracker dog with the scent of a missing purpose. “Wow!” exclaims Doodlebug, pouring his wonder over the treasure produced before him. “This is great! How did you manage to come up with this stuff so fast? It’s exactly what newspaper readers want!” “Stuff and nonsense, you mean!” retorts Doodie Doodle. “This lot is only for show. Wait till you see real treasure, treasure that sparkles and glitters. Then you’ll realise that what we’ve got here pops flat.” “Pops flat? But that doesn’t matter. Nobody will notice the difference on a black-and-white newspaper photograph!” protests Doodlebug. He plonks himself down on the ground, letting the gold and the diamonds scatter about him. Usually he likes to doodle question marks, but this time can’t think of anything to add. So he just sits there in a glum little heap. Doodie Doodle, meanwhile, quenches his thirst with some tea. The two of them are about to clear up when a voice barks at them from a nearby copse: “Littering the countryside with gold and diamonds and teapots and doilies and cups and saucers and spoons and sugar bowls and doodle tongs is an offence under Section Seven (c), Paragraph Six, Sub-section Three, Clauses Nine to Twelve of the Clean Ears and Sunny Disposition Act of 1952!” Once again, out of the blue appears Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory of the Doodletown Police Patrol (he being the only one). He makes a wooden entrance, almost tripping over a root (this time he is disguised as a tree). Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug groan. The hands on Doodlebug’s feelers cover his eyes. He can’t bear to look. Daymares always upset him. The policeman closes in on them, whacking his truncheon threateningly against his trunk. “So you thought you could get away with it again, eh!” he crows. “Well, you didn’t reckon on my amazing powers of deduction – plus this map I found in your litter bin way back, which provided the clues to lead me to the dastardly scene of your crime!” An acorn lands on Police Constable Perfunctory’s head. He tries to dodge the next one, not realising it is his. He stands to one side, and continues boasting in his rather officious fashion, “All the crosses on the map meant nothing of course. I soon twigged to that. So I instinctively followed the trail to where there wasn’t an X, coming across you two litterbugs again!” His leaves crackle sinisterly. “Littering is an offence punishable ... by having your pencils broken in half!” he snaps. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug stammer, “We ... we were on the verge of tidying up when you arrived, honestly!” (That they are able to speak with one voice comes as no surprise once it has been taken note of.) Before Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory can take out his standard police issue pencil cracker, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug doodle a disposable litter bin (regulation brown packet size) and throw into it the gold and the diamonds and the tea cups and everything else – except, when they come to the teapot, the policeman orders them to leave that alone for he plans to detain it as a Crucial Piece of Evidence. Handcuffed to his watch, he checks the time. “If I hurry I can make it to Mrs Metzbaum’s patisserie for a fresh brioche or two, the tea’s still quite hot,” he mutters to himself, patting his fingerprints all over the pot.


He turns to Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. “What are you gooping at!” he roars. “Be off with you! And don’t let me catch you littering again!” Needing no second bidding, the two friends kick the policeman on the shins and race off down the forest path, skedaddling as fast as they are able to as far as it is possible. Wherever it is that they are going, they can’t get there soon enough – but when they do they collapse, panting, against a stone wall. As soon as Doodlebug finds his breath, he loses his patience. “The Incredible Treasure Hunt is turning out instead to be an incredible disaster!” he wails in exasperation. “We’re only good at finding trouble – not treasure! And I’m tired of being called a litterbug! I’m not a litterbug! I’m a doodlebug!” He is convinced he should be doing something useful instead, like drawing on the walls at home (his house is built of colouring-in books). “We don’t even know where to begin looking!” he cries. “And we can’t possibly dig up every hole in Doodleland in the hope of finding buried treasure there!” Admitting that Doodlebug is talking sense, Doodie Doodle realises that he has to come up with a solution. Which requires a bit of a think. Being Doodie Doodle, however, this gets used up pretty quickly. He tries to make room for a bigger one, but can’t fit it in. Then just when it seems the biggest think is more than he can imagine, he exclaims, “I’ve got it! Instead of going to the treasure, the treasure must come to us!” “Ouch!” says Doodlebug, feelers slapping his forehead. “That hurts!” Undeterred, Doodie Doodle doesn’t bat an eyelid or flinch from his resolve. “Tell me,” he inquires with a serious tone, “who goes around burying treasure, particularly on desert islands?” “Pirates, I guess,” replies Doodlebug hesitantly. “Exactly. So we doodle ourselves a pirate. Then he can lead us to where the treasure is. It’s as easy as that!” Before Doodlebug can point out that pirates never tell in the second place where they’ve buried their treasure, which is why they’ve hidden it in the first place, Doodie Doodle slashes and swishes away with his pencil, wielding it as if it were a cutlass. And when he is finished... The pirate glares at Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug, then notices a duck on his own shoulder. “Auk!” squawks the pirate crossly. “Where’s my parrot?” He tries to shrug off the duck, but with no success. “Does it matter awfully?” asks Doodie Doodle with heightened apprehension, reluctant to admit that he isn’t the world’s best doodler of exotic birds. The pirate shrugs again. “I’m so glad you understand,” says Doodie Doodle. “I was in a bit of a hurry and ... well, the doodle has a peculiar way of not turning out as you expect.” “The doodle does as is,” points out Doodlebug. For safety reasons, he backs up his friend – by standing directly behind him. “And what the doodle becomes is often not what it at first seemed.” To reassure himself he adds, “I learnt that when I was only a thumbnail’s sketch.” However, the pirate is too busy to listen. Instead, he concentrates on making his face go bright red as he flaps his shoulders to an alarming beat, trying to dislodge the duck. The bird merely imitates the pirate by shrugging its wings in turn, contented to stay put. “Perhaps we can lure Polly off with a cracker,” suggests Doodie Doodle. “Quacker,” says the duck. At this, the pirate explodes with rage. Grabbing the duck and wrenching it from his shoulder, he cries, “I’ll teach ye to cross swords with me! I’ve made swabs crawl my plank for less – before they could even walk!” For a scary moment, man and fowl tussle in a flurry of frills and feathers. The bird, however, manages to twist out of the pirate’s grasp, pecking off his nose and flying away with it. “Cub back!” honks the wretched pirate, shaking his fist at the fleeing bird. “Gib be back by dose!” Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug gasp. Never before have they seen a duck with a nose! But – hark! – there is no time to marvel for now the pirate turns on them, cutlass badly drawn on one hand, the other sporting a nasty hook. “Blackguards!” he roars. “Yer to blame for this! I’ll bake bincebeat of ye yet!”


Realising the peril they are in, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug let out a piercing shriek, then flee behind it and cower there in dread of The End (which is every character’s nightmare). “Oh dear, oh dear!” Doodie Doodle moans aloud, eyes wide as pies. “I wish I hadn’t doodled that cutlass so sharp or given the pirate that hook! It makes him too life-like for my liking! Too much realism can be a dangerous thing!” Charging down on the two Doodleduddlians, the pirate raises his cutlass high above his head and gives a blood-curdling cry. Frozen with fear, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug shriek once more, reinforcing their defences. “If you harm us, we won’t doodle back your nose!” howls Doodie Doodle. While Doodlebug yells, “We only want to be your friends! We need you to help us find treasure!” “Treasure?” exclaims the pirate, immediately stopping short in a huge swarm of dust. “Treasure?” Slowly, he drops his cutlass to his side, cocks his head and gives a belly laugh. “Bell, by didn’t you say so!” An enormous smile blossoms on his face. “Bat bakes all the difference!” He stows his cutlass in his belt and, with a grand gesture, holds open his arms. “Cub to be, by dear bateys! Bere’s no need to be afraid!” He adds, “You can call be Roger.” All of a sudden, he is as jolly as can be. Glancing at each other for reassurance, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug step forward cautiously and introduce themselves. In turn, the pirate shows them his business card. “Hmmm,” says Doodie Doodle, somewhat relieved at the sight. “The ace of spades. Most encouraging.” Doodlebug nods his head in agreement. Giving the pair a crooked smile, the pirate then inquires offhandedly, “I don’t subbose you hab a spare dose on you, perchance?” “I can easily doodle one,” replies Doodie Doodle, eager to make amends. “Yo-ho!” trills the pirate. “Det’s see it den." Taking great care, Doodie Doodle doodles him a rose. “I said a spare dose, not a dose!” exclaims the pirate, somewhat ruffled. “And dis time bake it snappy.” “Sorry,” says Doodie Doodle, doodling him a snappy nose. The pirate tears the petals off the rose and sniffs the thorns. “Bat’s better,” he says. “All in order.” “You don’t have to talk funny anymore,” says Doodlebug. “We’re not playing that game now.” “Speak for yourself,” sniffs the pirate. “I know I don’t, whatever I say in how I’m told.” He suddenly brightens up, remembering. “Now where’s the treasure, me mateys?” “You tell us. You’re the pirate,” replies Doodie Doodle. “Hah! I wish it was that easy! Just because I’m a pirate doesn’t automatically entitle me to treasure. Because I haven’t got any.” “Yes, you do. You have to. It’s a well-known fact that pirates bury treasure. It’s part of the job.” “Not mine!” blusters the pirate. “The truth of the matter is when the lads went a-treasure burying it was my half-day off!” Suddenly he glares hard towards the bow, exclaiming, “No wonder I can’t see properly! You’ve given me an eye patch – and there’s nothing wrong with my eyes!” “There ... isn’t?” bleats Doodie Doodle. “I didn’t realise. I thought all pirates...” “Aa-a-ack! And what’s this? You’ve gone and put the peg leg onto the wrong leg!” cries the pirate. Bending over double to take a closer look, he nearly topples off his stump. “Shiver me timbers!” he erupts, straightening up with a blunderbuss shot. “Woodworm!” He rips off his eye patch, all the better to be unable to believe what he is seeing. And what he continues to see is enough to make him blow his poop. “Poltroons!” he thunders, yanking out his cutlass once again. “Prepare to swing from the yardarm! I’ll cut out yer livers for this!” Giving Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug no time to draw their pencils in defence, he lunges at them once more.


But before he can take a single step forward, there is a horrible cracking sound as the peg leg nearly snaps in half. Aghast, the now not-so-jolly Roger freezes, realising that he will keel over instantly if he now so much as twitches! Worse still, he is unable to stand up for himself anymore! Far from being beaten, however, the rogue automatically resorts to an old pirate ploy that is so cold-blooded, diabolically calculating, fiendish and ghastly in its perception that it is guaranteed to scare the pantaloons off the most stout-hearted of able men. “Mama!” he bawls lustily. “Mama! Come help! Two bullies are picking on me!” Petrified, Doodlebug urges Doodie Doodle to doodle a television set around the pirate and switch him off – or at the very least to change channels to make him disappear. “Better still, doodle a picture frame around him!” he cries in a panic. “That’d make him stand still enough. He’d prefer that, considering!” “Mama!” the teetering pirate continues to wail. “Mama!” Despite the peril they are in, however, Doodie Doodle feels duty-bound to help the pirate out of his predicament. “I can’t leave the poor fellow like this,” he says. “After all, I’m responsible for what has happened to him.” When the pirate realises that the two landlubbers are taking pity on him, he starts to blubber. Now his bad old mummy will never come to help her no-good son; she’d be too ashamed to! He feels awful for having let her down when she did her absolute worst to bring him up like any other normal, nasty pirate boy. Spattering his cheeks with tick-tock tears, he laments, “You’re not supposed to feel sorry for me! It gives me a bad name. Don’t forget I’m a pirate! I’m mean and treacherous and cruel and terrifying. You’re supposed to be scared to death of me!” “There, there,” says Doodlebug, using his shadow to pat the pirate on the back. “Worse things happen at sea. Besides, we’ll only help you a little bit.” At once, he and Doodie Doodle set about doodling a pensioner’s peg leg repair kit, comprising a bottle of Doctor McIlthackerley’s wonder formula woodworm treatment dip, a tin of assorted waterproof (plastic) plugs and a tub of Ezispred boot polish (for those formal occasions). In the meantime, Doodlebug tries to cheer up the pirate by telling him where he can find a litter bin filled with gold and diamonds, and perhaps he’s even interested in collecting china tea sets too. Doodlebug advises him to hurry there before the litter collectors (first class) take it all away. Still sniffling (but afraid to use his handkerchief in case he blows off his nose), the pirate takes the repair kit. Then, without saying a word, he puts his best foot forward and goes boing! boing! boing! down the road, waggling his peg leg behind him. (Crossing a sports field farther on, he gets mixed up in a three-legged race and is made to run the course twice to make up for having lost his partner.)

Chapter Four

Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug can’t tell you how relieved they are to see the last of the pirate (so I am doing it for them). “To think that we almost had to walk the plank!” exclaims Doodlebug. “And here’s me not even being able to swim. My nautical almanac would certainly have come in handy to float on.” “Pooh!” retorts Doodie Doodle, bold as brass now that he is no longer in danger. “Don’t tell me you were afraid of drowning! Doesn’t it occur to you that we’re nowhere near water, let alone the sea?” He says impatiently, “Come on, let’s get back to our treasure hunt.” The two friends follow a track up a steep hillside. Up and up and up they go. Rounding a final corner, however, they find their way is blocked by a large boulder. “Aha!” thinks Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory of the Doodletown Police Patrol (he being the only one). “My disguise is perfect! I’ll catch these two litterbugs littering yet!” Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug stop in front of the boulder, unable to get past. “However did this get here?” exclaims Doodlebug, without knowing why. He turns to Doodie Doodle. “What are you going to say?” “Either the boulder moves or we don’t,” remarks his friend. “We’ve got to get it out of the way.”


So he and Doodlebug put their shoulders to the boulder and heave and push and finally roll it off the track. The boulder bounces down the slope at an alarming speed, crashing through brambles all the way to the bottom. “Oowaaooeeuuu!” yells Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory as he is systematically ripped to shreds. “What was that?” exclaims Doodlebug with fright, the hairs standing up on the nape of his neck. Then he realises. “It’s the pirate!” he cries. “He’s returned to get his revenge!” The two friends take to their heels, speeding off like scorched little devils and gaining enough distance to get them out of there as quickly as possible (while at the same time adding a little bit extra to be safe). Reaching the sanctuary of nearby woods, and having halted to catch their breath, Doodie Doodle says determinedly, “You can rest assured I’ll never doodle a pirate again. They’re much too sensitive for my liking. Which is why,” he continues with the air of one who has finally decided between tweedledum and tweedledee, “we should doodle a gold prospector instead. They always know where to look for gold!” “Uh-oh,” says Doodlebug, fighting back an urge to race the pirate to the litter bin and be the first to announce the discovery of its contents to the Doodletown Yodel. His feelers wring their hands gravely as he warns Doodie Doodle, “While it’s unwavering faith like yours that will make the Incredible Treasure Hunt the success it is meant to be, I should point out that if you’ve lost your marbles we should drop everything and concentrate on finding those first!” “Nonsense!” replies his friend with chalky confidence. “We’ve come too far to quit now. Besides, I waited the whole of yesterday for today so I’m not going to let a silly pirate rob us of our treasure even before we’ve had the chance to find it.” With this, he pulls out his pencil and begins doodling anew. In no time, like quicksilver itself, a quizzical, grizzled, prospective gold prospector stands before them. “Chattanooga!” exclaims the prospector. “Where am Ah?” “Welcome to Doodleland,” says Doodie Doodle, kicking him on his shin.


In return, the prospector slaps Doodie Doodle in the face. Doodie Doodle rubs the sting grimly. What a strange way of greeting, he says to himself. Prudently, Doodlebug declines to say hello and says nothing. Such rude natives! thinks the prospector. Quite lost as to what is going on, he scratches his hat. It has an Indian arrow through it, pointing backwards. The prospector takes out his compass and checks it, shaking it vigorously and holding it up to his ear. “Mmmm. North, south, east fer west, every critter’s in place ’cept me, there’s a purty mystery,” he murmurs. “One minute Ah’m pannin’ the river – and the next it stays put while Ah have the shore pulled out from under muh feet. Chattanooga!” “Bless you,” says Doodlebug. The prospector gives him a funny look, noticing him for the first time. Then he turns to Doodie Doodle and says with a small voice, “There’ve been mighty strange goings-on here, fair give me the jitters. Ah’m a perspector. Ah need to get back to muh perspectin’. Can you help me?” “Of course,” replies Doodie Doodle. “After all, we’re in this together.” “So yer perspectors too then, eh? Well, what do yer perspect fer? Iron ore?” “Or what?” asks Doodie Doodle. “Er ... or silver, gold...” “I know where there’s so much doodle gold that we actually threw it away,” interrupts Doodlebug, wistfully thinking of the litter bin – much to Doodie Doodle’s disappointment. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” crows the prospector, flinging his hat into the air. “At last Ah’m going to be rich, rich, rich! Ah’ll finally be able to afford more exclamation marks!” He stands still suddenly, searching the ground about him. “Where’s muh hat then?” he asks. His hat has got stuck on top of a tall cactus. “What the jiminy is this here lone cactus doing dang in the middle of these here there woods?” exclaims the startled prospector. “I ... I put it there. I thought it’d ... make you feel more at home,” replies Doodie Doodle sheepishly. “Help me!” he hisses aside to Doodlebug. “Where the heck did this guy get his brains?” While Doodlebug distracts the prospector’s attention with a real, life-size, walking, talking doodle of himself, Doodie Doodle doodles an air nozzle to the base of the cactus and lets out the air. Thus, he is able to retrieve the prospector’s hat without pricking himself on the spines. The prospector is not as forgiving. He takes back his headgear, grumbling, “Muh hat’s now got more holes in it than muh sieve (which is old and losin’ many). It’ll be your fault if Ah catch a cold from the draught. Chattanooga!” “Bless you,” says Doodlebug again, thinking the old-timer already has. The prospector gives him a funny look once more, still none the wiser, then takes out a plug of toffee (baked bean flavour) and chews thoughtfully on it. (Doodlebug is most impressed. Later on, he tries to doodle his own toffee but it keeps tasting of soggy paper.) “Now tell me about this here there doodle gold,” the prospector finally says to Doodie Doodle. “Ah’m mighty interested.” “We’re not after doodle gold,” explains Doodie Doodle. “It’s the real stuff we want.” “Aha!” responds the prospector. “Ah get it ... which means Ah don’t want it either! That doodle gold is fool’s gold, doggone it. Well, Ah’m no fool either, no sirree. Ah’m fer real too. Which is percisely why Ah traded in muh pack mule (he were right hopeless at that ... packing, Ah mean) for this Nippy Nifty Purty Jiffy Spiffy Auto Static Matic Divining Stick, guaranteed to lead a body to gold with the minimum of supervision!” He takes out a warty-looking stick from under his shirt and gives it a monstrous shine, then without further ado points it ahead and follows, arms tweaking with excitement. Hardly able to contain themselves, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug set off behind the prospector, not daring to utter a sound lest they divide the diviner’s attention. At last they are on the trail of treasure – and it is gold at that!


The prospector scuttles through the woods and over the hills at a steady pace, elbows bandying in the breeze as he hangs on firmly to the divining rod. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug trot expectantly at his heels, winking at each other. Alas, however, their hopes are short-lived. Unbeknown to all, the Nippy Nifty Purty Jiffy Spiffy Auto Static Matic Divining Stick has a steering impediment and, instead of leading the trio to treasure, it takes them back in a full circle to the abandoned wishing well abandoned in turn by Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug earlier on that morning. “Rabbity-ray!” exclaims a crestfallen Doodie Doodle, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of the well. Doodlebug is equally as disappointed. “That’s the last time I go to that Squeekypeek crone to hear my fortune!” he declares dejectedly. “The cheek of her to tell me all’s well that ends well! She’ll be most surprised to lose me as a customer!” Oblivious to his companions’ disappointment, the gold prospector runs across the glade to the well, yelling, “A mine shaft! A mine shaft!” With delight, he hurls the Nippy Nifty Purty Jiffy Spiffy Auto Static Matic Divining Stick high into the air. It soars majestically, culminating its climb in a graceful loop, then plunges back to earth, hitting the prospector on the head and bouncing into the well. Knocked dizzy, the old man trips over a “Keep Off The Grass” sign and stumbles into the well, falling hard on the trail of his failing comet. There is a dry thud as he hits the bottom. (Someone has pulled out the plug.) Fortunately, however, his fall is broken by the Nippy Nifty Purty Jiffy Spiffy Auto Static Matic Divining Stick which, in turn, is broken by him landing on top of it. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug rush over to the well and peer in. “Are you all right?” they shout down. At first, there is an ominous silence. Eventually, however, the prospector gets to his feet – and immediately starts dancing a jig. The fall onto his head has knocked him silly. He seems to have lost his mind although he is still wearing his hat. The prospector starts singing nursery rhymes. “Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocketful of poses, atishoo, atishoo...” “Bless you!” calls out Doodlebug. Doodie Doodle glares coldly at him. “Cut that out,” he exclaims, realising with dismay that not only is the Incredible Treasure Hunt once again in a hole but now the two Doodleduddlians have got to pull a dotty prospector out of one too. They immediately doodle a sturdy length of industrial strength rope. Each starts at different ends, one of which they tie to a nearby tree (first checking it for signs of inhabitation by Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory. It turns out to be a plane tree). The other end of the rope Doodie Doodle drops into the well (having fortunately remembered to join both ends in the middle). He and Doodlebug then draw straws to see who will go down to rescue the prospector. As it is, Doodlebug runs out of paper first. In the meantime, the prospector tugs away at the rope, singing, “Ding dong bell, pussy’s in the well! Dingaling!” My feelings exactly, mutters Doodlebug as he lowers himself cautiously into the well. And with reason – for no sooner does he reach the bottom when the prospector begins chasing him around and around, chanting fiercely, “Fee, fie, foe, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!” Barely able to keep out of the prospector’s clutches, Doodlebug runs for his life, feelers hanging onto his hat. He shouts to Doodie Doodle to save him, but Doodie Doodle doesn’t hear a thing because no one has told him he has to. In desperation, Doodlebug yanks the rip-cord on his chest. Out pops the rubber. Grabbing it, he turns to face the prospector – and quickly rubs out his arms. Undaunted, the prospector continues to chase Doodlebug, clapping his heels and cackling, “Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chop, chop, chop, chop...!” So Doodlebug rubs out the prospector’s legs.


“Ground floor!” cries the prospector, rolling the bowls of his boggling eyes. Cut down to half mast, he takes to hopping after Doodlebug, yelping like a typical pit terrier, “Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, beggars are coming to town! Yip, yip!” At his wit’s end, Doodlebug is about to rub out the prospector’s head when the old man bounces off after the hanging rope instead, chanting, “Eency Weency Spider climbs up the water spout...!” Spinning a web with his beard, he tries to hoist himself up using his teeth but keeps falling off. Sensing his moment to strike, Doodlebug doodles a hook to the end of the rope, slips it under the prospector’s collar and tugs the line as a signal for Doodie Doodle. “Heave ho!” he cries. “And hurry!” This time Doodie Doodle hears him – and hauls away. Being grossly underweight, the prospector comes up as light as a puppet on a string. He pops over the wall of the well, plops into a pile on the ground and promptly falls asleep, exhausted by all the activity. “Rabbity-ray!” whistles Doodie Doodle, upon seeing the vastly diminished size of the prospector. “I didn’t realise I had to pull twice as hard to get all of him up in one go!” Soon Doodlebug appears at the top of the well, having climbed up a ladder to get there, doodling one rung at a time. Bit by bit, he tells Doodie Doodle the whole story. “Incredible,” says Doodie Doodle. “Who would have guessed a doodle could amount to so little in the end.” He surveys the prone figure, now sleeping like a log (or, in his case, a tree stump). “I reckon he’d make a jolly good doorstopper,” he adds. “Well, it serves him right,” remarks Doodlebug, rubbing out the rope and the hook. “Next time, he should pick on someone his own size.” At this, the prospector stirs and sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What a nightmare!” he exclaims. “Dreamt I lost my arms and legs! Such a song and dance that was!” He gets up, yawning and stretching. Doodlebug gapes. “How on earth did he do that?” he asks Doodie Doodle. Who remains unimpressed. “Can’t you see he’s only pretending,” he says. “Doodles mostly do.” For some strange reason (which he cannot fully fathom), the prospector feels rather small, and uncertain. He immediately asks for his wheelbarrow. “What wheelbarrow?” exclaims Doodie Doodle. “You only had a pack mule which you traded in for a Nitty Gritty Smelly Jelly Fatty Batty Divining Stick. Don’t you remember?” The prospector shakes his head, splinters stuck in his hat. “Of course not,” he replies. “Trade a mule for a stick? Why would I do a stupid thing like that? A stick gets a mule going – but you’d never make a mule go just to get a stick!” “Beats me, but that’s certainly what you did,” says Doodie Doodle. “Except this was a stick you hoped to find gold with.” “Gold? What twaddle!” snorts the prospector. “What do I want gold for? I’m a garden gnome. I can’t even find my wheelbarrow, let alone gold!” “You’re not a gnome, you’re a prospector!” protests Doodlebug. “The bump on your head, from the fall in the well, must have made you forget.” “What bump?” “See, you’ve forgotten. Your memory’s like the sieve you once had. Besides, if you’re not a prospector why did you initially tell us you were?” “Well, I had to, didn’t I?” retorts the prospector. “I was dressed for the part – and not through my choice either, I might add. But I’m no more a prospector then you are a ventriloquist, dummy. For one thing, I’m far too short! So stop telling me who I am and I’ll tell you what to do: give me a hand and a leg up. I seem to be stuck in a hole in the ground.” Doodlebug’s feelers clap their hands to his mouth. “Chattanooga!” he blurts, fearing the prospector is about to get the shock of his life when he tries to stand up – and discovers he has lost his legs. The prospector gives Doodlebug a funny look. “Bless you,” he says.


Doodie Doodle thinks quickly. He has to doodle the prospector to his original size without appearing to do so. But how? With help from higher quarters, he hits upon an exceptional plan. Smiling benignly at the prospector he asks, “You say you’ve lost your wheelbarrow. Can you tell me how long it was?” The prospector rolls up his sleeves and holds his arms wide open where they used to be – precisely where Doodie Doodle doodles them back, from where he is to where they belong. “What are you doing to my arms?” snaps the prospector, grabbing them away. “Why have you covered them in pencil marks?” “Sorry,” says Doodie Doodle. “I was merely trying to trace the outline of your wheelbarrow ... because – silly me – I don’t know what one looks like.” “Hairy canary!” exclaims the prospector. “Even a three-year old child can show you that!” Muttering ditto, he gets on to his hands and says, “Grab hold of my legs and push me. That’s a wheelbarrow! Now do you get the idea?” Quick on the draw as always, Doodie Doodle doodles the prospector’s legs back into place while holding them up. Then he pushes the prospector from behind and takes him for a quick spin. “I can walk! I can walk!” cries the prospector, wobbling forward on his hands. When he is standing once again, he feels more of his old self. Except that his boots pinch his feet (Doodie Doodle has doodled them back a size too small). Even worse, his wheelbarrow is still missing. “What do you want a wheelbarrow for?” asks Doodlebug. “Is that to put your gold in?” “It’s to put nothing in, stupid,” says the prospector. “It’s just an empty wheelbarrow. I push it about, that’s all.” “What a waste of time.” “Not to us garden gnomes!” exclaims the prospector indignantly. “Anyway, it makes more sense to push an empty wheelbarrow than a full one!” He eyes Doodlebug distrustfully. “You don’t know much about garden gnomes, do you? Don’t you realise that it is precisely because we push empty wheelbarrows that folks find us so appealing!” “But you’re not a gnome,” interrupts Doodie Doodle. “For a start, you’re far too tall.” The prospector blushes like a beetroot, now that the secret is out. “I ... I didn’t realise it was that obvious,” he stammers. “It sticks out a mile. However did they let you join up in the first place?” “I pretended I was seventy years older than I really am,” admits the prospector. “I won’t do it again, I promise!” He reflects sincerely upon the error of his ways. “Does this mean I won’t get back my wheelbarrow? I can’t go anywhere without it. It points me in the right direction. I just hold it in front of me ... and follow.” His elbows start twitching with anticipation. Doodie Doodle kicks Doodlebug on the shin for having rubbed out the prospector instead of this tiresome garden gnome. In turn, Doodlebug smiles at his friend and says, “Hello, but we’ve already greeted each other today.” Gnashing his vowels, Doodie Doodle turns back to the prospector, declaring loudly, “For once and for all, you never had a wheelbarrow! You had a pack mule once and then a stick! No more!” Cowed by the outburst, the prospector squirms, not liking what he hears. Doodlebug suggests that Doodie Doodle doodle a mule to make the prospector remember who he really is. “I can’t doodle mules,” protests Doodie Doodle. “They always turn out looking like hyaenas.” “You’ve got to be joking,” says the prospector. “I’m not,” says Doodie Doodle. And he shows him. The hyaena gives the prospector a leery grin, flashing gold teeth at him. The prospector is not amused. “Personally,” he mutters, “I fail to see the significance.” Doodlebug studies the hyaena carefully, before announcing, “I see what you mean, Doodie Doodle. Perhaps you should have doodled a giraffe instead. As I recall, your giraffes tend to display mule-like characteristics in their own peculiar way.” “A giraffe? Looking like a mule? Don’t make me laugh!” snorts the prospector.


“Ha-ha!” says the hyaena. Doodie Doodle blushes. “I’m ... I’m not very good at doodling necks,” he confesses. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed it’s not for nothing you have a good head on your shoulders.” The prospector goes puce in what little face he has left – and rummages furtively beneath his beard. “Where’s my neck?” he cries. “You’ve made me swallow my throat! Give me back my neck!” He tries to grab Doodie Doodle’s away from him. Not surprisingly, Doodie Doodle refuses to let go. Fortunately, Doodlebug comes to his friend’s rescue, intervening in the neck of time by doodling a neck and propping it beneath the prospector’s chin. Though, in his haste, he puts it on back to front. “Front to back?” asks the prospector, talking that way too. He lets go of Doodie Doodle. “No, back to front,” says Doodlebug. “Said I what is that,” huffs the prospector. “What? Front to back?” asks Doodlebug. “No, no. Back to front!” The prospector twists his head, screwing it tighter onto his shoulders (and in the process turning his neck the right way around). “Of course, now that I’m a full neck taller,” he boasts, “my gnome brothers will have to look up to me.”

Chapter Five

So, in the end, it comes to this: the Incredible Treasure Hunt needs a successful prospector, one who is as good as gold in finding it – not one who wouldn’t recognise a mine shaft even if he fell into it. Only how do you doodle a lucky prospector, when they spend most of the day at the bank, sneezing down the place on account of all the gold dust there? This gives Doodie Doodle a superlative idea...


Excitedly, he grabs Doodlebug by the arm. “I know exactly how to get back to our treasure hunt!” he says. “But to begin with, we have to take the first path going that way, which is anywhere out of here. We also need to get rid of the prospector and the hyaena.” Quietly, he adds aside, “With luck, they won’t follow us.” But of course they do. (It is not for nothing that the wishing well has been abandoned.) In silence then, the unlikely foursome make their way out of the woods. After walking at length, they arrive at a crossroad. There, the signpost reads: “This Way”, “That Way” and “Straight Ahead” (this is the way the group has come from.) The fourth sign, however, is blank. The prospector taps Doodie Doodle on the shoulder. “You’ve got to help me find my wheelbarrow,” he insists. “I want to go home.” “Which way is it?” asks Doodie Doodle, looking up at him. “It’s none of these,” replies the prospector, dismissing the signpost with a wave of his hand. “Rabbity-ray! So you’re definitely leaving us then!” cries Doodie Doodle, unable to hide his delight. “Of course, I’ll doodle a wheelbarrow for you. Here! That fast enough?” “Great goblins!” exclaims the prospector, eyes popping out of his head. “You’ve given me a limited edition, open-topped sports cabriolet! I’ve always wanted to drive one of these! Well, I’d better be off then!” He steps behind the wheelbarrow and takes the shafts in his hands. “Cheerio!” he cries. And away he goes. Standing quite still. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug stare at him. “What are you waiting for?” asks Doodlebug finally. “Why don’t you push off?” “I am, you ignoramus,” retorts the prospector. “Have you ever seen a garden gnome move?” The hands on Doodlebug’s feelers give him the thumbs down. Better luck next time, Doodlebug! Somewhat disappointed, he turns to Doodie Doodle, hissing under his breath, “What about the hyaena? How are we going to get rid of it?” “Heh-heh,” says the hyaena. Doodie Doodle whispers back, “Let’s doodle a hole in the ground and tell the hyaena it’s a short cut to Africa. Then when it goes into the hole, we rub it out!” So the two Doodleduddlians doodle a hole in the ground and tell the hyaena it’s a short cut to Africa and the hyaena looks at the hole and then at them and says, “Ha. Ha.” “Bother,” remarks Doodie Doodle. “It must have read my lips. I should have rubbed them out before speaking.” The fourth sign on the signpost is blank. “That’s the way we go,” explains Doodie Doodle.


“But that sign doesn’t tell us anything,” says Doodlebug. “How do we know where that road leads to?” “You put a name to the sign and you pave your way,” answers Doodie Doodle. “Put a name to the sign? What name?” “The Incredible Treasure Hunt, of course.” “And then?” “Stick to the path you have chosen.” “How?” “By believing in it.” “Well, let’s put our name on the sign then,” says Doodlebug. “You don’t have to. It’s already been done.” The sign remains blank. “There’s nothing there,” says Doodlebug. “If you do not see the words, you do not see the way,” replies Doodie Doodle. “But I do see the way – three times!” insists Doodlebug, pointing up the roads. Fed up with appearing so ignorant, he asks Doodie Doodle tetchily, “What makes you think that you know all the answers?” “Because I always read the instructions,” retorts Doodie Doodle, pointing to a board halfway down the signpost. He busies himself once more with his pencil. Only it takes him a little longer to doodle a bank manager because bank managers are portly and stout. “Gold? We have no gold in our vault!” says the bank manager. “Diamonds? We have no diamonds in our vault!” says the bank manager. “Money? We have no money in our vault!” says the bank manager. Then he beams at Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. “But I’d like to be your friend!” he proclaims. Doodie Doodle’s jaw drops. “No money in the bank? That’s impossible!” he exclaims. “Well, there you go, boys and girls,” remarks the bank manager frankly. “I’m not making it up, I promise you. And it’s no use asking Mrs Bank Manager either. She never says a word. Anyway, it was only once I had seen her off to do whatever she does when I’m not around (I don’t think even she knows) that I peered into my Customer-Detection Binoculars – and here I was with you! I had to come over at once to see what was going on.” Doodie Doodle says in a small voice, “We were hoping you could tell us where you got all your money from so we could go there and get some too...” The bank manager takes no notice of him. He is too busy patting the hyaena. “Love your dog,” he says. “It’s not a dog,” says Doodlebug. “It’s a hyaena.” “Whatever it is, it doesn’t look very high to me.” The hyaena doesn’t laugh. “I suspect it’s heard that old snorter before,” says Doodie Doodle dryly. Standing in a field on the other side of a hedgerow is Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory of the Doodletown Police Patrol (he being the only one). He is disguised as a scarecrow. Covered with sticking plaster as a result of tumbling headlong through brambles, he is now more determined than ever to catch Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug littering. Then at last he


can break their pencils in half – and have his photo put on the front page of the Doodletown Yodel under the headline: “Police Bust Litter Ring!” The bank manager picks up a chunky stick and shows it to the hyaena. “Fetch, doggie, fetch!” he cries, throwing the stick. It flies over the hedgerow, hitting Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory in the eye and then catching fast in one of the many holes in his ragged smock, to dangle there. Chasing the stick, the hyaena bursts through the hedge, pouncing onto the scarecrow. “Owowowowowowowowow!” cries Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory, toppling under the weight of the animal. Straw flies everywhere. Listening from the other side of the hedge, Doodie Doodle says, “The hyaena is having a howler of a time. Please read faster so we can get away before it comes back.” The bank manager suddenly remembers. “Memos!” he bursts out. “Boys and girls, we have memos in our vault – reminding us to lock the door!” He jiggles his tie pin. It looks conspicuously like a large paper clip. Upon closer inspection of his clothes, it transpires his shirt cuffs are stapled together, his braces are stuck to his trousers with sticky tape and the inside of his shoes are lined with old bus tickets. Far afar, however, he looks pretty respectable – which is how Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug want to keep him: the farther away the better! Using this timely break in mid-sentence ... they take to their heels, fleeing from yet another of Doodie Doodle’s monumental doodle disasters. At the same time, with one pole along his arms and another shoved down his smock and trousers, the scarecrow bounces off in the opposite direction, screeching “Wee-waa! Wee-waa! Wee-waa!” His clothes more realistically tattered than before, he bolts over the horizon, pursued by the hyaena on hot buttered paws. (The scarecrow eventually manages to shake off the beast by hiding on top of a large tower of wood which then bursts into a bonfire.) Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug are less fortunate in their escape, from the bank manager, that is. Having put their name to the blank sign at the crossroad, they are stuck with the way that is written there: which is him. Quite simply, the bank manager is their path and they cannot go anywhere without him, no matter how far ahead they choose. Even so, they try their utmost to leave him behind. The bank manager doesn’t mind in the least that his new friends have run away. In fact, he counts up to twenty to give them a decent head-start. Being a fog-bound sort of fellow in need of companionship, he thinks that they are playing hide-and-seek. Finally crying, “Tally-ho, boys and girls, here I come, ready or not!” he gives chase, puffing and spouting like a massive steam engine, clodhoppers akin to large paperweights galumphing down the road. This only serves to spur on Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. They race flat out to get away from him. As they career at full stretch around a bend, Doodie Doodle suddenly notices a black cross in the middle of a nearby field. “It’s the spot marked X!” he yells, swerving towards it, triumphantly punching the air with his fist. “We’ve found it at last! The sign was right! This is the way of the Incredible Treasure Hunt!” Without breaking stride, he leaps over the fence, into the field, followed pell-mell, waste-no-haste by Doodlebug. The two of them race towards the spot, hearts thumping with excitement. Doodie Doodle dives at the cross, bringing himself down on top of it – and picks it up. Underneath, there is nothing but grass! “Whoa! Put that down! It’s mine! Give it to me!” cries a voice shrilly. Scurrying towards them from the opposite side of the field is a gingerbread pilot, trailing a large rubber band. In his rush to reach them, he keeps tripping and stumbling, dropping raisins behind him. “It’s a propeller!” he yells, waving his arms like one. “Belongs to my plane!” Dumbfounded, the two friends stare at him, then at the cross Doodie Doodle is holding. “What propeller?” they squawk. His little chest gasping, the gingerbread pilot runs up to them. “Seaplane!” he wheezes, pointing to the sky. “Rubber band broke ... propeller fell off ... had to ... parachute down ... get replacement band!”


Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug gaze upwards. “I don’t see any plane,” says Doodlebug. “Seaplane! It’s a search-and-rescue plane, muffin head!” exclaims the gingerbread pilot in exasperation, wringing crumbs from his hands. “She’s aloft on automatic glide! A kite’s waiting to take me up from the airfield. We might even have to tow the plane down!” He points to the cross in Doodie Doodle’s hand. “That’s why I need my propeller! Hurry! I have to save a runaway gingerbread man! He was last seen heading for the river in the company of a chisel-eyed fox!” Doodie Doodle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hold it right there,” he interrupts, “you can’t fool us with old stories! I’ve heard this one before – at bedtime too! I’m afraid you’re too late. Ginger doesn’t make it. I have this on good authority. Just ask my old history teacher!” “Bedtime story?” sneers the gingerbread pilot. “This is no bedtime story! It’s a real life emergency, pastry brains! Now stop arguing and give me my propeller – quick!” He starts chewing the ends of his moustache, nerves equally as frayed. Doodie Doodle remains unconvinced that the gingerbread pilot is telling the truth. After all, everyone knows the story of the gingerbread runaway and how it ends. And now this strange little biscuit-bone is making it up as he goes along. “He’s trying to trick me into giving up the spot marked X so that he can claim the treasure for himself,” thinks Doodie Doodle. “Whoever heard of a gingerbread pilot anyway?” Doodie Doodle draws himself to his full height without doodling long about it either. “This isn’t a propeller,” he insists. “It’s the spot marked X. Our spot. We’re treasure hunters. First we find the cross – which I’m holding – then we find the treasure. Without this cross we’re very much lost, much like the treasure itself.” The gingerbread pilot kneads his palms. “How many times must I tell you it’s not a cross, it’s my propeller!” he cries. “Anyway, if you know where to look for your treasure, why do you still need a cross?” “I need it,” explains Doodle Doodle carefully and deliberately, with the patience of rising dough, “because without it there is nothing to show that treasure is buried in this field.” “But there isn’t any treasure! Your cross is really my propeller!” “That’s what you keep saying, but only because you didn’t find the spot marked X yourself!” The gingerbread pilot stamps his foot angrily, raising clouds of cinnamon dust. He pulls a map out of his airman’s jacket and pushes it at Doodie Doodle. “Here’s where we are, in this field!” He stabs his finger at the map. “You can see there’s no cross marked here at all – which proves that what you’re holding is my propeller!” Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug study the map. It appears that the gingerbread pilot is correct. There is no sign of a cross whatsoever. This puts the two companions in quite a spot. “See what I mean?” jeers the gingerbread pilot. “My propeller is not your cross! It’s my propeller! It fell out of the sky! And that’s not on the map either!” To the gingerbread pilot’s surprise, however, Doodie Doodle shoves the map back at him. “Of course this map doesn’t have a cross on it,” retorts Doodie Doodle. “It’s a map for aviators, not treasure hunters! That’s of no use to us!” “But the cross you have won’t be on any treasure map either!” bawls the distraught gingerbread pilot, getting quite soggy about the cheeks. He starts gnawing his knuckles. In despair, he takes out a pencil and draws a cross on the map as far as possible from the field they’re in. Then he thrusts the map back into Doodie Doodle’s face. “There! Now it’s a treasure map! It has a cross! And you can see for yourself that it’s not the same one you found here – because that’s my propeller! Agreed?” However, once more Doodie Doodle pushes the map back at him. Looking the gingerbread pilot straight in the sultanas, he says, “How do I know that the cross on the map is not actually the propeller you’re after – instead of the cross we found in this field, indicating the presence of buried treasure?” By now within striking hue of puce, the gingerbread pilot is about to whop Doodie Doodle with the large rubber band when the bank manager appears on the road, crying out, “Peekaboo! I see you!” Straining with the effort, he squeezes through a barbed wire fence, slitting his suit down the stripes, and then lumbers up to the group with a chuff-chug-a-lug, chuff-chug-a-lug.


He playfully tweaks the cheeks of Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. “What a silly place to hide in, right in the middle of an empty field!” he chides them. “As if I wouldn’t be able to find you here, boys and girls!” Suddenly, he notices the gingerbread pilot. “Well, I’ll be double-debited!” cries the bank manager, drooling with delight. “What a sight for hungry eyes!” He flips his straw hat in the air (without even bothering to take it off). The gingerbread pilot shrieks, fearing he is about to become baking history (his mother always warned him that snacking between meals would ruin his health). He tries to make a run for it but the bank manager collars him deftly, smacking his purple lips. “Gotcha, my beauty!” exclaims the bank manager as the gingerbread pilot wriggles and twists in his grasp. “Spare me and I’ll grant you three wishes!” yelps the gingerbread pilot. “I’m not really a gingerbread pilot! I’m a handsome prince under a wicked witch’s spell! Ask Cinderella! She lets down her hair for me! Let me go and you can borrow my fairy godmother for birthday parties!” “What are you gabbling about?” retorts the bank manager, grabbing the map away from the gingerbread pilot and thrusting him rudely aside. “I’m after this amazing treasure map, not you! Besides, you look quite stale.” “That’s supposed to be pale, stupid!” huffs the gingerbread pilot crustily. “That’s not the way it reads to me.” The gingerbread pilot glares sulkily at the bank manager. “So take the map then. I don’t want it anyway.” “Stuffed mattresses! Not want a treasure map? You must be mad!” “It’s not even made of gingerbread,” mutters the gingerbread pilot. “I hope you choke on it.” “I’m not going to eat it, you oven-mitten mutt,” says the bank manager. “I’m going to use it to find treasure!” “I just want my propeller back, that’s all!” howls the gingerbread pilot. “I was going to give the map to him” – he points to Doodie Doodle – “but he’s not interested in it either!” The bank manager turns to Doodie Doodle. “Stuffed mattresses, you too must be mad!” “I’m not,” remarks Doodie Doodle, “and I’ll tell you why. What you have is not a treasure map. It’s a map to help you to fly.” “Nonsense!” exclaims the bank manager. “This map shows a spot marked X! And it works perfectly well on the ground!” “For your information, the treasure is actually buried right here, where we stand,” says Doodie Doodle. “As you see, I’m holding the cross in my hand.” “Oh poppycock!” retorts the bunk manager sharply. “If that’s the cross which marks the treasure, then why isn’t it shown on this map? The spot marked X is way over there” – he jabs a podgy finger at the map – “by the river!” Before Doodie Doodle can stop him, the bank manager snatches away the cross and presses it into the gingerbread pilot’s hands, sputtering, “Now take your propeller and buzz along. We’ve got treasure to find!” Like a flash in the pan, the gingerbread pilot is off and running, hoping he can still save his plane and the runaway gingerbread man. At the aerodrome, the kite bides its time, patiently waiting, stretching its talons. The bank manager meanwhile heads back to the road, hurrying along beneath a hastily drawn haircut. He hasn’t felt so lucky since the day he found two wishing bones in his roast chicken dinner.

Chapter Six

The unexpected turn of events catches Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug completely by surprise. At first, they don’t know what to do. Should they stay and dig for treasure? Or is the cross marked X truly the gingerbread pilot’s propeller? Will the bank manager’s map really lead to treasure – or does his plan look good only on paper? What if they mark this spot in the field


with their own cross – and someone else discovers it while they’re following the bank manager? But, if there’s no treasure here anyway, will that matter? Deciding not to ruin a perfectly entertaining plot, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug hurry on after the bank manager. Gripped by treasure fever, he has already made fair progress down the road, barrelling along on twinkling trotters.

With the land breezes behind him, it is no wonder he reaches the river first. According to the map he holds, the spot marked X is right in the middle, on an island! Not even considering how far away it is, or bothering to take off his clothes, the bank manager hurls himself into the river, raising the water level. He strikes out for the island, flopping his fins like a kettledrum roll. Shortly thereafter, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug appear on the river bank. “Tut, tut. What a waste of energy,” says Doodie Doodle, observing the bank manager’s slow progress. Doodlebug yawns. “I agree. Someone should have told him that when you want something in Doodleland all you have to do is doodle it. It’s that easy.” He sharpens his pencil in his nose and doodles some shade beneath a tree. This then is where he and Doodlebug sit, in the sun, eating doodle ice-cream cones. Afterwards, Doodie Doodle suggests going for a row. To which Doodlebug replies, “Why not. It’s a pleasant enough day for that sort of thing.” So they doodle themselves a rowboat and step in, casting off with a pull at the oars. “Dug-outs suit hunters for buried treasure better,” observes Doodlebug. Choosing to travel first class, he doodles some cushions on his side of the seat. His feelers wave like pennants in the light breeze. Rowing steadily, the two adventurers soon overtake the dank manager, who by now is listing steadily to port, having taken in a great deal of water. He is too busy signalling his intentions of abandoning ship to wave to them as they pass. All of a sudden, a giant chocolate egg comes flying at them from the island, narrowly missing the boat and splashing into the water – to be immediately followed by a second egg, which smashes on the prow, scattering chips all over Doodlebug. A third chocolate egg scores a cracker on the bank manager’s head, splitting open with a conker’s crunch and dunking him. A fourth egg quickly follows. The attack, in open water, comes without warning.


Stupefied, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug flop their jaws, then recover enough presence of mind to drop their oars and dive to the floor of the boat. The adventurers are under siege! “Cluck!” yells Doodie Doodle as another chocolate zinger whizzes overhead. “Surely you mean ‘Duck’?” exclaims Doodlebug. “No, that was a chicken egg,” replies Doodie Doodle. The unfortunate bank manager has no hope of escape. His amply generous tonnage affording too good a target to miss, he cops a battery of chocolate eggs from the island before being able to flounder towards the boat and wallow for shelter in its lee. One of the larger eggs is fired so forcefully that it clears the river altogether, knocking a beehive off a branch in a spinney beyond the bank. The hive falls straight into Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory’s lap. (He is cleverly disguised as the spinney.) Angry bees attack him immediately and the queen bee squiffs royal jelly in his face. The policeman flees towards the river, half carried there by bees, and dives into the water to escape them, taking his extensive collection of bee stings with him. Unaware of Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory’s presence, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug lie low in the boat, the eggs flying thick and fast about them. As a result, they take little notice of a spinney gasping for air as it floats bobby-bobby by (though on later recollection Doodie Doodle wonders where it was that he last saw a policeman’s helmet doing the Squeekypeek paddle). Suddenly, the battery of eggs stops and a voice calls out sharply from the island, “Keep out! Stay away! This is private property!” Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug exchange inquiring glances. Who on earth could their attacker be? Doodlebug gathers his cushions hurriedly about him, doodling them to look like sandbags. He expresses regret at no longer having his swatter with him, with which to lob the eggs right back (he prides himself on being an excellent fore-arm volleyer). Meanwhile, Doodie Doodle doodles a telescope and peers cautiously over the gunwale with it. The sight that greets his eyes clear takes his breath away. “Well, I never!” he gasps. “It’s the Easter Bunny! Armed with a giant chocolate catapult, no less!” Doodlebug can’t believe it. But before he can verify for himself, chocolate chicks and hens and roosters and rabbits rain down as another bombardment starts up from the island. Hastily, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug flatten themselves against the floor of the boat, chocolate slivers flying everywhere. Tasting some of the pieces, Doodlebug cries in alarm, “It’s worse than I thought! The Easter Bunny’s using heavy artillery! This stuff is dark chocolate!” Fearing the little rowboat will sink under the weight of the shelling, Doodlebug frantically stuffs his face with lopped-off rabbit heads and ears, urging Doodie Doodle to do the same. “Action stations! Man the lumps! Bail out – or we’re done for!” he gubbles between mouthfuls. Next, big bombers (chocolate humpty dumpties) pound them from the skies – followed by marshmallow eggs that skim across the water, smashing into the boat and rocking it violently. The onslaught then stops – and all falls quiet on the river. The only sounds to be heard are the lapping of waves and the creaking of timber from the stern of the boat, where the bank manager is trying to hang on while crossing his fingers. Cautiously, Doodie Doodle peers through the telescope again. The catapult has been abandoned. The Easter Bunny is nowhere to be seen. “He must have gone to fetch reinforcements!” cries Doodie Doodle. “Let’s get to the island before he returns! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s found the treasure on the map and is trying to keep us away!” Plugging their pockets with emergency rations, the two Doodleduddlians jump to their seats, grabbing their oars. They row to the island as quickly as possible. The crank manager assists with propulsion by kicking his chubby legs and churning up the water behind him. At last, the boat grinds to a halt on the shore. Exhausted, the bank manager collapses in the reeds. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug leap to land and race up the slope to the giant catapult, reaching it as the Easter Bunny staggers up under a load of chocolate hand grenades. He


gets such a fright upon seeing the invading force before him that he drops the lot onto his feet. “Ouch!” he cries, hopping about in agony. “Get ouch! This is private property! Keep ouch!” Standing their ground, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug launch into an assault of their own, loudly scolding the Easter Bunny for having tried to sink their boat – with them in it. “That was a nasty thing to do!” exclaims Doodie Doodle. “If it weren’t for the fact that we were otherwise occupied, I would have come straight over here and told you sooner. You should be ashamed of yourself!” The Easter Bunny stops leaping about, and shakes his clenched paw in Doodie Doodle’s face. “I’m only protecting my eggs! That’s why I insist you leave this island at once!” he demands. Doodie Doodle gives a sharp laugh. “Protecting your eggs? Ha! That’s a joke!” he snorts. “You’re not protecting your eggs. You’re using them as missiles against us!” “No, I’m not!” sneers the Easter Bunny. “If you’d know better – which you don’t – you’d realise that those aren’t my eggs! So it’s just as well I tried to keep you away! You’re like the rest of them. You can’t tell the difference anymore!” “What difference?” asks Doodlebug, licking leftover emergency rations off his lips. “Between my Easter eggs and the fake ones sold in shops, which have nothing to do with me! That’s why I’ve hidden the genuine, original eggs on this island, to protect them from imitations sold to those who are no longer prepared to wait for Easter Sunday to have them. I’m using the fake eggs to protect the real ones!” Just then, the Easter Bunny’s eyes pop from his head and he points wildly down the hill. “Aaaieee!” he shrieks. “The Slimy Whatsit from the Swamp! It’s coming towards us! Defend yourselves!” He lunges for a chocolate hand grenade, yanks out the pin and… It is not the Slimy Whatsit from the Swamp. It is the bank manager squelching soggily up the slope towards them, dragging his shadow behind him, bumpety-bump on the ground. He has slipped in the mud and slopped in the loam and slithered in the ooze and is covered with brown muck and algae and duckweed and frogbit and bog bean. Sputtering like a beached bivalve, the bank manager is so waterlogged that his clothes shrink on him, tightening so fast that his coat and vest buttons start snapping off, firing straight at the Easter Bunny who, clearly outnumbered, shouts, “Stop! Don’t shoot! I surrender!” He throws his paws into the air, letting go of the chocolate hand grenade, which falls live to the ground. “Watch out!” yells Doodie Doodle, leaping back. “It’s going to go off!” Doodlebug has never heard of chocolate going off, but he doesn’t particularly want to find out either. Putting his own stomach at considerable personal risk, he pounces on the grenade and gobbles it up, thereby rendering it harmless. “Whew!” says Doodie Doodle, wiping his brow with relief. “What courage! You saved our lives, not to mention my appetite!” “Urp,” replies Doodlebug modestly. “It was nothing.” Fearing expensive laundry bills, he politely steps aside to let the bang manager pass him on the narrow path. The bank manager waddles straight up to the Easter Bunny and gets him to bring down his raised paws so that he can shake them. “Congratulations,” he gasps to the astonished creature. “I don’t know how you did it, but you beat me fair and square. I thought I was the only one who had the map. I tried so hard. But now the treasure’s all yours, I guess.” The bank manager does his best to hide his disappointment. (The only reason he doesn’t burst into tears is because he is drenched enough as it is.) “Map? Treasure? What are you talking about?” asks the baffled bunny, twitching his whiskers. “The only treasure I have are my Easter eggs. Anyone can have them, as long as they wait till Easter Sunday. I thought I could keep them safe on this island. Only it doesn’t seem to have been such a good idea because now everybody knows where they’re hidden.” “Did you say safe?” exclaims the bank manager, his spirits lifting immediately. “Stuffed mattresses, what a coincidence! It just so happens that I’m a bank manager. My bank has lots and lots of safes ... and plenty of space in them too! You can keep your eggs there, what do you say? We really must talk, you and I, and the sooner the better! Mrs Bank Manager will have to arrange to store her penny elsewhere.”


He wrings out his soggy appointment book and consults it. “Hmmm, I’m busy at this precise moment,” he says, “but could I see you in ... say three seconds or so?” The Easter Bunny becomes equally as animated (even if only doodled that way). “Safes? Well, why didn’t I think of that before?” he exclaims. He tugs the bank manager’s arm. “Come, let’s go over to my hutch. We can discuss business over some carrot cordial. But first we’ll get you out of your wet clothes. I’ve an old bunny suit lying around somewhere, the kind you zip up the front.” He babbles on, “Did you know that I keep my chocolate coins in a chocolate piggy bank? Isn’t that something? ... So you shoot first and ask questions afterwards, eh?” With a cursory farewell to Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug, the Easter Bunny and the bank manager take their leave, chattering excitedly about nest eggs and how to turn them into a rainbow’s end.

Chapter Seven

In silence, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug watch the Easter Bunny and the bank manager depart. In silence too they row back across the river, deep in thought, stepping ashore on the other side. The day is long drawn, and once more the Incredible Treasure Hunt appears to have left them empty-handed. Downstream, crossing a bridge on his rolling-pin, Rexie Ruler spots a sodden map, caught up in the reeds. He fishes it out, curious to know if it has fallen off the back of a sinister submarine. (He has never before measured a sinister submarine.) So he comes tootling up the road, buoyed with enthusiasm and the prospect of cold cuts for dinner, and bumps instead into Doodie Doodle, Doodlebug and the remaining, front half of a rowboat.

Now Rexie, being a born ruler, is master of all he surveys. He goes to great lengths to measure everything across (and including) the breadth and width of the land. The trouble is, being a doodle himself, he is seldom as straight or as accurate as he would like to be. No doodle is ever the same in the first place twice and is always different in the place after that. To make matters worse, Rexie Ruler finds it difficult to read his markings. These remain sideways up no matter where he stands. Each time he tries to make head or tail of them, he gets a crick in his neck, with the result that it goes all stiff. And the more he squints at the markings, the less sense they make, which gives him frightful headaches. Then he has to go home and lie in a bent hammock in the dark (which he can’t measure at all) until he feels better again. Not surprisingly then, Rexie Ruler’s biggest wish is to live not in Doodleland but in the Land of Straight-Believe. When Rexie Ruler comes across Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug and half a rowboat he has an absolute fit, going all rigid with a funny colour to his face. Next, he shows Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug the map he has found. He asks: Have they seen a sinister submarine pass by? Where do they think the map has come from? And isn’t he fortunate to have found such a treasure?


For obvious reasons, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug regard the bedraggled piece of paper with disinclination. No (they reply), they haven’t seen a submarine but their arms feel as if they have towed one, rowing across the river. “You rowed across?” exclaims Rexie Ruler in surprise. “Why didn’t you use the bridge downstream, like I did?” “We didn’t know there was one,” says Doodie Doodle. “We didn’t have that map to show us.” “But how could the map have showed you the bridge when it was the bridge that showed me the map?” asks Rexie Ruler. Doodlebug watches a spider knitting a web in a nearby bush. “I don’t get it,” he says. “I know,” replies Rexie Ruler. “I did.” On his sleeve, he wears a button. It says: Rexie Rules, OK?

Before showing them the map, Rexie Ruler has an absolute fit, going all rigid with a funny colour to his face (don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten). “Where’s the rest of the rowboat?” he sputters, pointing to the half that remains on the river bank. (Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug have been rubbing out the boat into bits and pieces that will fit into a litter bin the size of a brown paper bag. That way Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory won’t be able to catch them littering. Not that he’d waste his whole day following them, of course! Policemen have much more important things to do.) “Don’t you realise you should have measured the boat first?” cries Rexie Ruler, unable to conceal his anxiety. “Everything has to be measured! That’s what the Law of Botheration says! Otherwise the Shadows will rise up out of the Vague and they will conquer the Shapes – and the Jelly will swallow us all!” “I thought it was the other way round,” remarks Doodlebug. “It usually is at birthday parties.” “If nothing is measured,” Rexie Ruler continues to squawk, “we can never know how long is ... and how far it takes to go around ... or the beauty of thin deep. Don’t you understand?”


“There, there,” sympathises Doodie Doodle, “all is not lost. You can still work out the full length of the rowboat. Simply measure the half that’s left – and multiply the answer by two. Now that should make your task twice as important!” Rexie Ruler immediately brightens at the prospect and polishes his second button: Rexie still rules, OK! Doodie Doodle runs his hand proudly along the half length of the rowboat. “Feel this workmanship,” he says. “They just don’t doodle them like this anymore. This vessel is almost brand-new, has hardly been used. It’s not as if we rub out any old junk, you know.” Dreamily, Rexie Ruler strokes the half-boat (getting a splinter in his thumb). “Naturally there are added features,” exclaims Doodlebug. “Note the cushion halves of sandbags, the top bits that stick out of two oars and half a telescope. ... Now is that with it pulled out or pushed in?” “Sounds more like subtracted features to me,” sighs Rexie Ruler. “How plump is a cushion?” he asks despondently. “How wide-sweeping is an oar bit? For how long can you look through a telescope before it wears through? Now I’ll never know!” Despite his disappointment, Rexie Ruler puts on a brave face. After all, he has a reputation to measure up to – and half a rowboat done is better than none of a whole one. Without wasting time, he lies down on the grass, next to the boat, and asks Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug to keep an eye out for bookmarks, who are always bent on interrupting his work. “I’m sorry but we can’t stop,” says Doodie Doodle. “We’re in the middle of a treasure hunt and if we don’t hurry up we’re going to miss the ending. Then we’ll never know what happened.” “Treasure hunt? That’s incredible!” whistles Rexie Ruler, sitting up with interest (only with him it’s the same as standing). Rexie Ruler has never measured a treasure hunt before. (Remembering who he is and what he has to do, he interrupts himself with carefully measured tones: “Question mark ... four point five centimetres! Exclamation mark ... three point nine centimetres! ... I think! Oh, that’s another exclamation mark...”) “You can’t measure treasure hunts,” exclaims Doodie Doodle, realising exactly what Rexie Ruler is thinking (because by now everyone does). “You’re a ruler. You measure how long things are. To work out how long they take, you need a stopwatch.” “I’ve got a watch – and that’s stopped,” says Doodlebug, trying to be helpful. “Of course I can measure treasure hunts!” insists Rexie Ruler. “You say that you’re in the middle of one. Well, I simply measure back to where you started and multiply the answer by two. That’ll take me to the end. Don’t you see? It’s the same as measuring a whole rowboat from half a one!” Doodie Doodle remains sceptical. “I’ve heard of going to the end from the beginning through the middle,” he says, “but I’ve never heard of starting at the middle to get to the beginning in the hope of finding the end!” Rexie Ruler’s enthusiasm, however, is unshakeable. So he comes up with another suggestion, stating, “When you get to the end of the treasure hunt, bring it back to me so I can measure the last half from here. (If you curl it up, it’ll be easier to carry. I can flatten it out later with my rolling pin.) And to make it worth your while, I’ll even measure the build-up to the climax!” (“Er ... exclamation mark ... five point two centimetres...”) “Don’t be silly,” snorts Doodie Doodle. “I can’t bring back the end. The end is the end. No one can go beyond that, least of all us. If we continue farther than that, it can hardly be the end anymore, can it? So in the end what I come back with is not really what you want. Then you’ll realise that the end has been here – and we’ve been standing on it all along.” “That’s still no reason why you should leave me,” grumbles Rexie Ruler. “If the treasure hunt is as incredible as you say, you’ll be able to read all about it in tomorrow’s paper. You won’t miss a thing. Treasure hunts are big news, you know. And if the treasure hunt turns up nothing you’ve missed the same. So stay put and let’s have some fun.” He gets to his feet. “I can show you my impersonation of a stick-in-the-mud. See?” But Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug are already on their way, waving goodbye. Rexie Ruler tries to call them back. “Let’s play at charades then – and you can guess whether I’m a right angle or not!”


Left alone, Rexie Ruler turns back to the half-boat. However, in doing so, he slips on his rolling-pin, pitches forward into the half-boat and tips both it and himself into the river. Fortunately, being a reasonably good floater, he manages to swim back to the bank. As for the half-boat, half of it sinks out of sight, below the water line, and settles there. Rexie Ruler tries to pull out the half-boat, but without success. So now, to work out the boat’s full length, he has to measure a quarter of the half-boat – and multiply the answer not by two but by four. Except, of course, he can’t. And here’s why: rulers only measure, they can’t calculate. That’s what calculators do, of course! Rexie Ruler is stunned when he realises this. Giving a cry of anguish, he falls flat onto his back. For no matter which way he measures it up, he is unable to calculate: not by two, not by four, not by zero. To be precise, all he can figure out at this moment is that he can’t figure out anything! His troubles do not end there. The quarter of the half-boat suddenly keels over and disappears beneath the water, reappearing in the middle of the river as it is swept away by the current. “Come back!” cries Rexie Ruler, springing up. He throws his rolling-pin into the water and leaps onto it, in hot pursuit, pedalling furiously. But just as a lumberjack can’t roll his log on land, so Rexie Ruler discovers he is unable to roll his rolling-pin on water. It shoots out from under his scrabbling feet and, for the second time, he is thrown into the river. Spluttering, he splashes back to the bank. His rolling pin, meanwhile, bobs off in the wake of the vanishing quarter of a half of a whole rowboat. Not about to give up, Rexie Ruler hops onto the telescope left behind by Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug, intending to continue the chase by road and head the rolling-pin and boat off at the bridge downstream. His attempt is doomed from the start. Firstly, only light can travel by telescope – which in Rexie Ruler’s case is only half a one (that’s with it pulled out and pushed in). Secondly, unable to control the instrument, he keeps going around in circles. And gets so dizzy that he is eventually thrown onto the ground for his pains. Poor Rexie Ruler. Having lost all hope of ever seeing the half-boat and his rolling-pin again, he is forced to walk home, a distance he does not even attempt to measure. Sneezing from a head cold he has caught from having been dunked in the river more times than he can count, he can’t wait to get home to his little letterbox house (with the little house letterbox). There he will make himself a hot cup of cocoa, rug up, settle down to read a good thermometer – and try to forget his woes.

Chapter Eight


What of the Incredible Treasure Hunt itself? Are its chances of success as waning as the afternoon sun? Will Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug ever discover the fortune that they seek so unfailingly? Or is it purely by chance that they no longer tramp the unknown trail but find themselves going down a familiar path, as each step brings them back closer to Doodletown? Suddenly, there is a flash of light by the side of the road. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug gasp at the sight that greets their eyes: among the half-blown leaves lies a glittering, dazzling, sparkling, extraceptional whopper of a diamond! And most important of all, it is real! Whooping with joy, they both leap for the diamond, crashing-tackling it so hard that the ground shudders beneath them. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Doodlebug shouts victoriously, opening his fist to reveal ... a bubblegum wrapper! “Wha-a-a-at? Where’s the diamond?” he stammers, staggering back, stupefied.

Jumping to his feet, Doodie Doodle immediately realises what has happened. “Young Augustus Mole’s beaten us!” he cries. “He always chews bubblegum. He outbubbles everyone. After him! We mustn’t let him get away!” Doodie Doodle quickly rolls up his sleeves and doodles a spare pair for Doodlebug too. “Now doodle a jackhammer on the end of my arms,” he orders. “That way I can keep a better grip on the handle!” In no time he is hammering his way through the earth and into the mole’s tunnel. At the same time, Doodlebug doodles a “Doodles At Work” road sign, thinking, “If only I had my miner’s lamp with me now!”


As soon as Doodie Doodle breaks into the tunnel, Doodlebug rubs out the jackhammer and doodles back the arms his friend is itching to get his hands on. Then Doodlebug doodles a torch, and the two descend into the tunnel with Doodlebug lighting the way. It doesn’t take them very long to decide which way to go, left or right, nor do they have very far to choose. Drawn (because it is impossible to doodle) by sounds of snuffling and whimpering from nearby, Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug soon come across Young Augustus Mole fumbling about in a dark corner, unable to see where he is going because he has bubblegum all over his specs. “Aha! I was right!” exclaims Doodie Doodle. “It was you who took the diamond!” “Who’s that?” The mole starts, almost leaping out of his imitation moleskin jacket and breeches. He is clutching the diamond with both paws (which is why he has been unable to clean his glasses). “It’s Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug,” says Doodie Doodle. “Long time no see. We’ve come for the diamond. Hand it over. It’s not yours.” “It is!” protests Young Augustus Mole vigorously. “I found it!” “We saw it first. Even so, it doesn’t belong to any of us. We have to give it back to its rightful owner.” Young Augustus Mole grips the diamond more tightly than ever. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug are spoiling his fun. He wishes they would go away and leave him alone. He looks unhappily at them (wherever they are) and mutters, “Cabbage bubblegum always makes me burp. But I love the taste. I was so pleased to find the diamond I blew the biggest bubble I could ... which is when I had my blow-out.” “Oo-er,” says Doodlebug. “That must have been nasty.” “It was,” agrees Young Augustus Mole, consoled by having a sympathetic ear. “As you know, I always travel by underground – and I was taking this corner at the time. I banged my shoulder on the wall. It hurts right here ... my shoulder, I mean. Anyway, luckily for me there were no oncoming moles at the time.” “Every day my shoulders have a head on,” says Doodlebug. “I understand exactly how you feel.” With a pained expression, Doodie Doodle rolls up his eyes, earthwards. “Stop this nonsensical conversation!” he exclaims. “We’ve got to return the diamond to its owner as soon as possible. We don’t have time to chatter all day.” Young Augustus Mole sighs, turning the diamond about in his hands, pretending he can see it. “This diamond is the prettiest thing I have,” he says sadly. “I’ll never have anything quite like it again. Moles seldom get the chance to appreciate the finer things of life. Not that the dark down here helps much either.” He pauses. “To tell you the truth, until now my most prized possession is an autographed poster of Maffwew Mole, Child Superspy. I keep that in my tree-root cubbyhouse.” Feeling rather sorry for the pathetic creature, Doodie Doodle says, “Give me the diamond and I’ll doodle you a mirror in exchange: they’re always interesting to look at. Besides, it’ll show what a splendid fellow you are ... because if you keep the diamond everyone will say you pinched it.” Young Augustus Mole doesn’t like the thought of that. Trapped in a corner, he grumbles to himself over his predicament, kneading his brows. In the end, however, he reluctantly hands over the diamond and takes Doodie Doodle’s mirror. Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug then help him clean his glasses. The mole studies the mirror. “This doesn’t work,” he points out in clipped tones, “I can’t see myself in it.” “Sorry, I forgot,” says Doodie Doodle. He doodles a mole on the mirror and hands it back. “Why am I upside down?” asks Young Augustus Mole. Doodie Doodle turns the mirror the right way up. Young Augustus Mole is still not satisfied. “You’ve made me all fuzzy,” he says. “All moles are fuzzy,” replies Doodie Doodle. “Have you never seen yourself before? I guess it’s to do with moles being short-sighted. You ask your mum.”


“Omigosh,” exclaims Young Augustus Mole. “It completely slipped my mind. I’m supposed to be hanging out the washing. Now where under earth did I put that peg bag?” From down one of the long mole tunnels, a motherly voice calls out, “Young Augustus Mo-o-ole! Where are you? Are you lost, my little treasure?” “I have to be going,” says the errant mole-child. Hurriedly folding up the mirror into neat cracks, he stuffs it into a pocket and scuttles off.

Chapter Nine

Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug are overjoyed. The Incredible Treasure Hunt has been a success at last! They let out two voluminous cheers: “Rabbity-ray! Rabbity-ray!” Brimming with delight, they do subterranean cart-wheels. Doodlebug’s feelers give each other high fives. Emerging from the tunnel, Doodlebug is all for rushing off to report the good news to the Doodletown Yodel. However, Doodie Doodle insists they first find the owner of the diamond. “Who could it possibly be?” he asks. “Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory would know,” says Doodlebug. “Whenever anything gets lost, it’s always reported missing at the Doodletown Police Station. And what a job they have looking for it too.” “Well, it’s not much point taking the diamond there then,” decides Doodie Doodle. “Perhaps Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory should come to us instead. He always seems to anyway.” To attract him, they litter the torch about the place, dropping it here and there. They even tear it into little pieces, which they scatter on the ground. To their surprise, however, there is no sign of the policeman. “Perhaps he’s not feeling well,” says Doodlebug, not realising how close to the truth he is. For at that moment, Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory is being patched up, taped together and ironed out at the Doodletown General Hospital. Not only does he have a black eye, but he has been attacked by thrips, ring-barked, scratched by brambles, mauled by a hyaena, roasted by fire, stung by bees, half drowned, and nicked all over his belly-button with a whittling knife. (This is after the zipper on his tree disguise got stuck and they had to carve him out at the timber yard.) “Somehow, I don’t think Police Constable Peregrine Perfunctory is coming,” says Doodlebug eventually. So he and Doodie Doodle rub out the torch pieces. Doodie Doodle suggests phoning the Doodletown Police Station. To make it official, he and Doodlebug doodle a Lost Property stall complete with counter, bell, telephone and register book (in which Doodie Doodle writes: “Diamond, one.”). “We don’t want Police Constable Perfunctory to think it’s a crank call,” he says. Putting on a clerk’s green visor, he sits down behind the counter, cranks up the telephone and rings the Doodletown Police Station. No one answers. Doodie Doodle tries again. Still, there is no reply. He hangs up.


“Perhaps our phone’s been disconnected,” says Doodlebug. The two eat leftover chocolate egg rations. “I don’t remember ever having paid the bill.” Doodie Doodle doesn’t know what to think. He doodles a newspaper and turns to the crossword puzzle, getting stuck on the first clue (“Unable to proceed further, bogged down”: five letters ending in “k”). Bored, he looks around. “I wonder what the time is,” he says. He doodles a clock above the counter to find out. “Rabbity-ray! It’s already five!” he exclaims. He doodles a whistle and blows it. “What’s that for?” asks Doodlebug. “Time to close up shop!” replies Doodie Doodle. “Working hours are over!” He shuts the register book, takes off his visor and steps out from behind the counter. Filled with uncertainty, Doodlebug joins him. At that moment, who should come shuffling up the road towards them but old Caxton Scrapbook. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” he mutters as he hurries along, peering anxiously about him on the ground, this way and that. “Caxton Scrapbook! Fancy meeting you here!” exclaims Doodie Doodle. Without even breaking his stride, Caxton Scrapbook glances up from his visual excavations, not in the least bit surprised to see Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. “Oh hello,” he replies mechanically, then continues to hurry along, nose bent to the road, head scything, eyes raking about furtively. He is so engrossed that he does not watch where he is going and walks smack-bang into the Lost Property stall, jarring it – and himself to his senses. The clock falls off the wall with a crash. “Cuckoo!” it says, getting up off the ground and limping away. “Lost Property?” exclaims Caxton Scrapbook, upon reading the sign. “Then perhaps I can get help here.” He peers over the counter. “There’s no one in,” he says vacantly. “It’s closed for the day. It’s past knocking-off time,” explains Doodlebug, pointing to the departing clock. Caxton Scrapbook’s pasty face crumples. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he gulps, overcome with disappointment. He swallows so much air that he starts to hiccup, and suddenly finds himself unable to talk. “...!” he cries, speechless with exasperation. “...!” Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug stare in bewilderment at each other, then at the hapless Caxton Scrapbook – who throws open his front cover and starts rummaging frantically through his pages, flicking backwards and forwards, trying to find the right words. “Good grief,” blurts Doodie Doodle, realising what has happened. “Caxton Scrapbook’s lost his voice! Now we have no choice but to read him. It’s the only way we’ll find out what he’s saying!” Doodlebug is horrified. “How awful!” he exclaims. “Imagine only being able to speak through writing! I’d hate that to happen to me!” Pouncing on the sentence he is after, Caxton Scrapbook shows it to Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug. They read: “What shall I do?” Racked with hiccups, Caxton Scrapbook points to the empty Lost Property stall. “Why don’t you ring the bell?” suggests Doodie Doodle. “You never know, someone might be working late, filling in the overtime sheets.” So Caxton Scrapbook rings the bell. Then he flies back to his pages, searching furiously through an index, list of contents, glossary, addenda, appendices, compendium, preface and introduction, and it is in notes about inspecting lobster pots that he finds the following question, read here: “Is anybody in?” Caxton Scrapbook gazes into the Lost Property stall, hiccupping forlornly. Doodie Doodle goes behind the counter and puts on his clerk’s visor. “Who’s seen my rubber stamp? I seem to have lost it again,” he remarks. Caxton Scrapbook rings the bell for the second time. “Yes,” says Doodie Doodle. “Can I help you?” Still at a loss for words, Caxton Scrapbook springs into action again, hands flickering white through a blur of pages. Gasping once for every two hiccups, he digs up this answer (I’ve


written it out here to help him): “You most certainly can.” Then off he charges once more, flick-flacking pages left and right, until he produces the following line: “Excuse me.” Doodie Doodle is in no hurry. He picks up the newspaper and starts bristling through the empty pages, flickering grey, looking for the crossword. Caxton Scrapbook is momentarily stumped for his own cross words when a pesky scribble gets in his way – but soon he is back in the swing of things, first ferreting out “handed in”, then “has anybody” and putting them in the correct order. “Your voice?” pipes up Doodlebug, bursting with expectation, unable to help himself but always eager to help others. Caxton Scrapbook shakes his fists angrily. Now Doodlebug has made him lose the thread to his sentence – as well as his place in the book! Hiccupping uncontrollably, the scrapbook plucks out the words “No!” “No!” and “No!” from whichever page he can find them on the quickest, throwing them up in Doodlebug’s face. Then he scrambles back to his original purpose, pursuing his fingers as they lick a whirr through his pages, dog-ears flying amid a bunting of cuttings, paragraphs, clippings and jottings – until finally he holds up the two crucial words he has been ultimately searching for, at the same time jabbing to the spot so very close to his heart. And this is what Doodie Doodle reads: “A diamond.” He jerks bolt upright, unable to believe what he has heard. “What’s that?” he exclaims. “What did you say?” Caxton Scrapbook groans. Now he’ll have to hunt for the whole sentence again (unless someone is kind enough to read it for him here). Doodlebug doesn’t hesitate. He knows exactly what is going on. “It’s the diamond!” he cries. “Caxton Scrapbook’s lost his diamond!” Hurriedly, Doodie Doodle checks the lost property register. “Yes, yes!” he cries, jabbing his finger at the only entry. “Would you believe it, we’ve got a diamond right here! It was handed in only this afternoon!” He rushes out from behind the counter and presses the diamond into Caxton Scrapbook’s hands. “So it’s yours!” babbles Doodie Doodle. “Doodlebug and I, we found it! Buried treasure it was! We had to dig for Young Augustus Mole instead! He didn’t get very far because of the bubblegum! Wasn’t that lucky!” Caxton Scrapbook is so overcome with joy that he gives a cry, “My hiccups are gone! I can talk again! I can talk! Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah! Just listen to me!” Without wasting a second, he returns his precious diamond to the page it has been missing from, safely securing it there with doodle paste. Then he puts his arms around Doodie Doodle and Doodlebug and gives them a great hug, from cover to cover. Thrilled, they beam at him as if training to be lighthouses. The Incredible Treasure Hunt has turned out to be such an incredible success! Caxton Scrapbook is eager to hear the whole story, right from the very beginning. “I’m sure it’s so exciting it could fill a book,” he says. “But first let’s go to my house and have a cup of tea to celebrate. Then there’s this recipe for cherry cake I’ve been dying to try out – and I hear the cake’s pretty good too!” The three friends set off down the road together, chatting gaily as the sun slides behind the hills. And there, I suppose, our story should end – but for the appearance of a molehill in the now empty road. Up pops the snout of Dr Appoline Mole V.S. She peers concernedly about in the fading light, adjusts her bifocals and says, “Lumme!” upon spotting the Lost Property stall. “I wonder if anybody’s handed in my puppykins Augustus?” But, of course, it is not to be. The young mole has gone missing again.

the incredible treasure hunt a bedtime story (with

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