The runaway guy

Press, 1 November 1977, Page 27

The runaway guy

Steven and Kate had nearly finished making their guy for the bonfire that night. They propped him against the garden fence but he would not stay still. His head jerked back and one leg shot forward.

"He’s a bouncy old guy," said Kate, as she sewed on his button eyes. They were bright green ones and she could almost swear that one of them winked at her. “He wobbles” said Steven. “That must be what is wrong with him.” Steven hunted about for a stick to poke down the guy’s back and keep it straight. He found one under a tree. Although the end was jagged and it was a funny green colour, it felt strong. He held it up to Kate. “Look. It’s part of a broomstick, I think.”

Kate stared at the stick uneasily. “Throw it away” she said. “It’s a witches’ broomstick. Remember that crashing noise we heard against the house on Halloween night?” Steven laughed: “Who cares.” Without another thought, he shoved the stick through the straw which filled the guy’s back. He did not notice that as he pushed, the magic in the broomstick was working. It teased the straw, making it twist and curl. The guy tingled from his head to his sack toes. He sucked on his pipe and twitched his nose. Then he sneezed, “A-tishoo." And up he jumped. “Sit down,” Steven cried. But the guy tossed

his cap in the air and sped across the lawn. “Stop, stop.” shouted Kate, as the guy ran down the path which W’ound behind the garage. “Come back” called Steven, chasing after him. The guy ran faster and faster, and ducked behind a vine. He hid there quietly and the children ran by without seeing him. “He must be on the street,” said Kate.

The guy waited while the children scrambled over the fence. Then he stood up and looked about the garden. But there was not a place in which to hide. Only a dog with a squashed-in nose sat on the path, sunning himself. "Hey dog,” called the guy. “Help me.” “What’s that?” grunted the dog, sleepily. “Tell me where I can hide,” said the guy. The dog closed one eye and scratched his ear.

“Oh, do answer,” cried the guy. “I’m sure you know all the best hiding places.” “I'm thinking,’’ said the dog. “Here take my pipe,” the guy said, pulling it from his mouth. “A fine dog like you should have something in return for a favour. But be quick. I’m being chased and I haven’t much time.”

Tire dog sniffed the pipe and gripped it with his teeth. It was plain he liked it. "Ask at the cabbage tree,” he said at last. “Bang on it hard three times and something could happen. Or perhaps could not.”

The cabbage tree stood at the bottom of the gar-

den and its floppy leaves waved in the wind. Somebody lives here, the guy decided, as he thumped against the tree. He could hear creaks and shuffling noises inside. He thumped again and a door in the trunk opened. A scruffy little man peered out.

“Please let me in,’ 4 pleaded the guy. "I must hide or I will be burnt on the bonfire tonight.” “Come in.” said the scruffy little man, who pulled him through the door and shut it fast. “Thank you,” said the guy, panting with relief. For outside he could hear Steven’s and Kate’s feet thudding across the grass. He had arrived not a moment too soon. He sat down on the floor in the dark dabbage tree room, and thought what a snug home it was. There was a friendly smell of leaves and flax and dirt, and he could feel a piece of rope and two old potatoes near his feet.

“I know it’s a mess,” said the scruffy little man, crouching dowrn beside him. “But I’ve been busy building my raft this spring. In fact, I was just packing up when you came along.” “Where are you going” the guy asked. “I’m sailing downstream to a quiet spot in the country where I can fish and swim all day.”

“That sounds a good life.” said the guy. “You may as well come too,” replied the scruffy little man. He stood up and, slinging a bag over his shoulder, peered out

the door. “No-one In sight” he announced. “Let’s go.” So the guy followed the scruffy little man across the garden and through a hedge to a grassy slope. Now the guy couSfl hear the stream and, as he slid down the bank, he saw it sparkling in the sun.

No-one will ever find me, he thought happily, for the stream flowed and tumbled over shining stones to the wild hills beyond.

“Look — there’s my raft,” said the scruffy little man, pointing to the far bank. And there it lay, waiting for them under a tree. It was square anti sturdy, and there were two long paddles beside it. “It’s beautiful,” said the guy, as they hurried over to it. The raft was made of well-hewn logs and twine, and gleaming flax, and he could see that they were knotted firmly together.

He helped his friend push it into the water and jumped aboard. This was a raft, he knew, which would carry him safely anywhere. Each took a paddle and sailed far, far away. And that was the last anyone heard of the runaway guy.

Of course, Kate and Steven were sorry . that they never found him, but they were not upset for long because they had a big bonfire at night. However, they both resolved that they would never make a guy with witches’ broomstick again.