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  The Goblins thought about this for a while. There seemed something a bit wrong with Stinkwart’s maths, but nobody was sure enough to say so.

  ‘How come Stinkwart gets two?’ remarked Eyesore after a bit. ‘Two’s more than one, innit? How come he gets two sausages and the rest of us only gets one? Huh? Huh?’

  ‘Because I thought of ’em!’ cried Stinkwart triumphantly. ‘I thought of ’em, so I gets the most. Right?’

  ‘I’ll fight you for the extra one,’ challenged Slopbucket, flexing his muscles. Everyone cheered up. An early morning punch-up over non-existent sausages wasn’t quite as good as eating breakfast, but it was a way of filling in the time.

  The fight, however, never got off the ground, because just at that moment, there came a knock on the front boulder. Everyone looked startled. Visitors were rare, particularly at this hour of the morning.

  ‘Go on, Plug,’ chorused six voices. ‘See who it is.’

  Plugugly reached for the saucepan he habitually wore on his round, bald head. He was the official doorkeeper and he liked to look properly dressed. He stumped to the boulder, rolled it a tiny way to one side and spoke through the crack.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Whatcha want?’

  ‘It is the post,’ a gravelly voice informed him. ‘I is your Post Troll. I has brung you A Letter.’

  ‘Derrr – a what?’ said Plugugly.

  ‘A Letter,’ repeated the voice, adding helpfully, ‘It is a paper fing wiv a stamp on.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Plugugly, quite overwhelmed. The Goblins had never had A Letter before.

  There was a crackling noise and a square white envelope slid through the gap and fell with a plop at his feet. Nervously, Plugugly stooped and picked it up. The rest of the Goblins shuffled up and peered over his shoulder. It was addressed to:

  The Goblins, The Cave

  Goblin Territory, Lower Misty Mountains

  To the Goblins, who couldn’t read, it just looked like squiggly black marks.

  ‘Better open it, I suppose,’ remarked Eyesore doubtfully. ‘Go on, Plug.’

  Fingers trembling, Plugugly tore it open. It contained a single card covered with yet more incomprehensible squiggles. The Goblins examined it wonderingly.

  ‘Wot’s it say?’ asked Sproggit.

  ‘Dunno,’ confessed Plugugly. ‘Anyone got any idears?’

  The card was passed around for inspection.

  ‘Thass an H, innit?’ said Hog doubtfully, pointing at a G. But that wasn’t much help.

  ‘Wot we gonna do?’ wailed Lardo. ‘We got A Letter an’ we can’t read it. Wot we gonna do?’

  They stared wildly at each other, biting their knuckles and wringing their hands with frustration.

  ‘I know!’ cried Plugugly suddenly. ‘We’ll get de postie to read it to us!’

  Everyone cheered and clapped him on the back. Plugugly glowed. He hadn’t had many good ideas lately. Perhaps this was the start of a whole new Good Idears era.

  The Post Troll was stomping down the slope, merrily whistling a little ditty entitled ‘Post Troll Pete and His Oversized Feet’. He was surprised to hear wild shouts, then find himself suddenly surrounded.

  ‘Read dat,’ instructed the Goblin with the saucepan on his head, thrusting out the card.

  ‘What about that magic lickle word?’ said the Post Troll, wagging a reproving finger.

  The Goblins looked blank.

  ‘You know,’ prompted the Post Troll. ‘What has you got to say? When you is wanting a favour?’

  ‘Or else?’ suggested Slopbucket doubtfully.

  ‘I is referrin’ to “please”,’ the Post Troll told him severely. ‘Read that please.’

  ‘We can’t,’ explained Eyesore sadly.

  ‘So you read it,’ ordered Plugugly.

  The Post Troll gave up. He snatched the card and read: ‘ “The Great Gobbo invites you to a Grand Christmas Eve Fancy Dress Ball at Gobbo Towers. A prize will be awarded for the best costume.” There. Now what do you say?’

  More blank faces.

  ‘T’ank you!’ shouted the Post Troll. ‘T’ank you!’

  ‘Dat’s all right,’ said Plugugly. ‘Any time.’

  Shaking his head in despair, the Post Troll thrust the card back at Plugugly, shouldered his bag and stomped off down the hill.

  ‘Cor,’ said Plugugly, sounding quite choked. ‘We got an invitation. To a ball.’

  They could hardly take it in. The Great Gobbo, chief of all the Goblin tribes, wanted them – them – at his ball! What an honour.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to visit that there Gobbo Towers,’ said Lardo wonderingly. ‘It’s dead swanky. My old mum knew someone what worked up there. There’s somethin’ called A Hinside Toilet.’

  ‘Nah!’ breathed Hog, clutching at his heart. ‘That’s what you call sophicist . . . sophitis . . . sosiph . . . posh.’

  ‘An’ there’s a proper table with legs wot you eat off.’

  ‘Imagine eatin’ off table legs,’ gasped Slopbucket, terribly impressed, as anyone would be who was used to eating off the floor.

  ‘An’ the Great Gobbo sits on a whackin’ great throne,’ continued Lardo. ‘An’ all these beautiful She-Goblins in pink bikinis feeds him grapes.’

  ‘Oo-er,’ gulped his audience, their eyes coming over all glazed at the thought of the She-Goblins in their pink bikinis. Young Sproggit was so overcome he had to go and sit down under a tree.

  ‘What’s fancy dress when it’s at ’ome?’ Eyesore wanted to know.

  ‘I know!’ squeaked Hog, jumping around with his arm in the air. ‘It’s where you dresses up fancy. You has to go lookin’ like someone else, see.’

  ‘Well, dat’s easy,’ said Plugugly, relieved. ‘We’ll swap clothes an’ go as each udder.’

  ‘Erm – no, I don’t fink that’ll do,’ said Hog. ‘Iss gotta be someone special. Like a Spanish lady. Or a goriller. Iss gotta be a proper costume, see?’

  ‘Sounds tricky,’ commented Lardo, shaking his head. ‘Proper costumes don’t grow on trees.’

  Seven anxious pairs of eyes roamed over the few scrubby trees growing on the slope. Nope. No costumes there.

  ‘We’ll fink about de costumes,’ decided Plugugly. ‘We’ll ’ave a long, hard fink. We ain’t lettin’ costumes stop us from goin’ to de ball. We just ’ave to use our ’eads. Right?’

  The Goblins looked at each other doubtfully.

  ‘I ’ad my ’ead examined once,’ remarked Lardo. ‘They couldn’t find nuffin’.’

  And, brows furrowed in deep concentration, they made their way back up to the cave in order to begin the unaccustomed process of thinking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Script

  I think I’ve got writer’s block,’ announced Pongwiffy. She was wading to and fro in a sea of inky puddles and screwed-up pieces of paper in Number One, Dump Edge, which is the hovel where she lives. Obviously, things were not going well on the creative front.

  ‘Vot ze problem?’ asked Hugo, who was sitting in a teacup, filling in The Daily Miracle crossword puzzle.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ cried the demented playwright, clutching her head with ink-stained fingers. ‘I’ll tell you the problem. I’ve got a cast of thousands which I’ve somehow got to fit into a storyline. I’ve got to think of jolly songs and some dances and a happy ending. And there’s got to be a funny bit with a horse and a bit where everyone goes, “He’s behind you!” And everything has to be in rhyming couplets – and that’s hard, I might tell you.’

  Hugo put down the paper with a little sigh.

  ‘Vot you done so far?’

  ‘Not much,’ admitted Pongwiffy. ‘Right now I’m trying to come up with a plot and a snappy title. The one I’ve thought of sounds a bit long.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Pongwiffy snatched up a piece of paper and read:

  ‘Sherlock Holmes Solves the Mysterious Case of the Missing Babes in the Wood Who are Spotted by Three Princesses After They H
ave Been Cruelly Left There by Lady Macbeth Riding Half a Pantomime Horse and They Have a Dream About Cleopatra But are Rescued by the Pied Piper and Dick Whittington and They Get Three Wishes from a Fairy and Live Happily Ever After.’

  ‘Is good plot,’ nodded Hugo encouragingly. ‘Plenty of action.’

  ‘That’s not the plot. That’s the title. Oh dear! I knew it was too long.’

  ‘Don’t vorry about ze title,’ advised Hugo. ‘Script first. Title later.’

  ‘I know, I know. But that’s easier said than done. These rhyming couplets are very tricky, you know. I’ve had a go at Sherlock Holmes’s opening speech, but I’m stuck.’

  ‘Read me vot you done.’

  Pongwiffy fished about and came up with another piece of paper.

  ‘Ahem. “Enter Sherlock Holmes.”’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Go on,’ said Hugo.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Zat’s it? But ’e not say nussink!’

  ‘I know. I told you I was having trouble with his opening speech.’

  ‘Vell,’ said Hugo, shaking his head. ‘Zat no good. Zis Sherlock, ’e important character. ’E got to ’ave lines to say. ’E got to say sumsink like –’ he scratched his head, ‘sumsink like, “I Sherlock ’Olmes. ’Ow do you do? I searchink for a vital clue.” ’

  ‘What?’ hissed Pongwiffy, electrified. ‘What did you just say, Hugo?’

  Hugo looked surprised, gave a little shrug, then repeated it.

  ‘I Sherlock ’Olmes. ’Ow do you do?

  I searchink for a vital clue.’

  ‘But it’s brilliant!’ cried Pongwiffy, casting about for another sheet of paper. ‘Hang on, let me write it down!’

  Ink sprayed everywhere as she scribbled madly.

  ‘Right. Got it. What might he say next, do you think?’

  Hugo pondered briefly, then said:

  ‘Ze Babes are missink in ze vood.

  No news of zem. Zis is not good.

  I’ave to solve zis mystery

  Or zose poor Babes is ’istory.’

  ‘Hugo! But this is sheer poetry! I never knew you had it in you!’

  Pongwiffy’s pen fairly flew as she committed the immortal lines to paper.

  ‘Go on!’ she begged. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Vell . . .’ said Hugo slowly, ‘vell, zen zis Sherlock, ’e go off to ze vood to look for ze Babes. And ’oo should ’e meet but Snow Vhite and ’er friends Rapunzel and Sleepink Beauty, dancink gracefully round a tree.’

  ‘Of course! That gets a dance in! Hang on, I must make a note to book the Witchway Rhythm Boys. Right, go on! What do they say?’

  Hugo vaulted from the cup, twirled an imaginary skirt, batted his eyelashes and declaimed:

  ‘I am Snow Vhite, as you can see.

  Zose are my good friends ’ere viz me.

  Ve laugh an’ play an’ ’ave such fun,

  And zen ve lie down in ze sun.’

  ‘Fun! Sun! Incredible!’ marvelled Pongwiffy. ‘Go on. What does Scrofula say?’

  With absolutely no hesitation, Hugo replied:

  ‘I am Rapunzel viz long hair

  And Sleepink Beauty’s over zere.’

  ‘Amazing! Fantastic! How do you think of it?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Hugo with a modest little shrug. ‘It just come, you know?’

  ‘Well, I never!’ crowed Pongwiffy, rocking to and fro. ‘What talent! And I never even knew. Oh, this is too good to be true!’

  Just then there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Cooooeeee! Pong! It’s me!’ came a voice.

  ‘Botheration! It’s Sharky. And just as the panto was beginning to take shape. Go and put your feet up, Hugo, you little genius. Rest your brains for a bit. We’ll carry on the minute I get rid of her.’

  She scuttled to the door and flung it open.

  ‘Yes? What is it, Sharky? I’m rather busy at the moment. Writing the panto, you know.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’ said Sharkadder, peering curiously at the heaps of crumpled paper. ‘Well, I won’t stop long. It’s very cold out here. I don’t suppose . . . ?’

  She looked hopefully past Pongwiffy in the direction of the kettle.

  ‘No,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Oh, well. I’ll be off, then. Don’t want to interrupt the creative flow. Is it – er – coming along all right?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine,’ declared Pongwiffy. ‘I’m getting on like a hovel on fire. It’s fairly flowing out of me. Should have it all wrapped up in no time.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ breathed Sharkadder, terribly impressed. ‘I never knew you were a writer, Pong. It just goes to show. You can be friends with someone for years and not discover all their hidden talents.’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Pongwiffy with a light little laugh.

  ‘Ahem!’

  From behind there came the distinct sound of a Hamster’s warning cough.

  ‘Have you – er – got to Dick Whittington’s bit yet, by any chance?’ enquired Sharkadder, trying to sound casual. ‘Not that I’m that interested, ha ha, it’s just that I was wondering if I’ve got a lot of lines to say. By any chance.’

  ‘You haven’t entered yet. You have to be patient. I’ve got loads of other stuff to fit in first. This is a team effort, Sharkadder. We don’t want any prima donnas.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course. I quite understand that,’ said Sharkadder humbly. ‘I’ll let you get on, then, shall I?’

  She turned and respectfully began to tiptoe away. Then she paused.

  ‘Er – just one thing. I don’t have to kiss anybody, do I?’

  Pongwiffy glanced back at Hugo, who shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Pongwiffy furtively. ‘Haven’t quite decided. If it’s in the script, you’ll have to. That’s show business.’

  ‘Well, I’m not kissing Sludgegooey or any of that lot,’ declared Sharkadder firmly. ‘Even if I am Principal Boy. I do have some pride. If there’s any princess-kissing to be done, you’ll need a Prince Charming.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Pongwiffy sternly. ‘Who’s writing this panto?’

  ‘Why – you, of course, Pong.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Me. With, perhaps, a bit of help from Hugo. And I don’t need to be told how it should be done. Anyway, we don’t have a Prince Charming. Nobody wanted to be him.’

  ‘Well, you could always import one. And I’ve got just the person.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Pongwiffy.

  Sharkadder told her.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Pongwiffy.

  ‘I’m not. I can’t think of anyone else, can you?’

  Pongwiffy couldn’t. There was a distinct lack of princely material in Witchway Wood.

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Sharkadder gaily. ‘We’ll go and tell him the good news this afternoon.’

  ‘Well – all right,’ sighed Pongwiffy reluctantly, adding, ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Sharky, I’d like to get back to my script. I feel a couplet coming on.’

  And she shut the door.

  ‘There’s got to be a Prince Charming, mind,’ Sharkadder’s voice called faintly. ‘It’s traditional.’

  ‘She right, Mistress,’ said Hugo. ‘Zere has. It is.’

  ‘Hmm. All right, we’ll stick him in at the end, just before the happy ending. Right, come on then, polish your brains up, Hugo. Let’s get this script on the road!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Prince Ronald

  Sharkadder’s nephew, who was rather grandly known as Ronald the Magnificent (but only to himself), was in his attic room at the Wizards’ Clubhouse. Well, actually, it wasn’t so much a room. More a cupboard, really.

  The allocation of rooms at the Clubhouse was based on the time-honoured Beard System. The Wizard with the longest beard got the big, posh room with the decent rug and the potted plant. The second longest beard was awarded the second poshest (slightly smaller rug, slightly deader p
lant) – right down to Ronald, who had no beard at all and therefore got the attic with no rug, no plant and everyone else’s discarded furniture. Sadly, this didn’t include a chair. Ronald spent all his time standing up or lying down, with very little in between.

  Right now, he was bent over his desk, which was awash with ancient books, scraps of paper covered in scribbly notes and a host of little jars and bottles filled with mysterious substances. Rising from the clutter was a Bunsen burner, currently set at a low flame under a copper pot. The official name for this pot, as any Wizard will tell you, is a crucible. Ronald’s crucible contained a simmering, milky-white substance which was giving off thin wreaths of ghostly white smoke.

  It was very clear that some sort of Wizardly experiment was taking place!

  In fact, for the last few weeks, Ronald had been secretly working on an exciting, new, mould-breaking formula for an Extra Strong Invisibility Serum. If his calculations were right, a small sprinkle of this wonderful new serum would bring on a state of instant and complete vanishment. There was nothing like it on the market, unless you counted Invisibility Pills (unreliable with a terrible taste) or old-fashioned Cloaks of Invisibility (a shocking nuisance because they were never to be found and always needed dry-cleaning).

  The idea had come to him in an inspired flash one day, when he was eating a packet of Polos. If he could just isolate the holes and, using his amazing Wizardly skills, combine them scientifically with a bit of this and a bit of that, and maybe just a touch of the other . . .

  Weeks of highly secret research had followed. Long, lonely hours spent huddled over his candle, working out difficult times tables and doing complicated things with a compass. Much poring over the pages of ancient tomes. Much tramping about at dawn in soggy countryside, tracking down various rare plants and herbs. Much eating of Polos.

  Still. It was worth it. If the serum worked, he would be the toast of the town in Wizardly circles. He might be asked to write an article about it for The Wizard’s Weekly. Why, he’d be famous! People might even stop teasing him. People might say things like, ‘Say, you’ve got to hand it to young Ronald, he’s really come up with the goods this time. Someone should get him a chair, don’t you think?’