later. He shook it over the tank, and the eyeballs swam up to nibble on the flakes of food.
âThere now, darlings,â the man said. âEat up, eat up! Iâll be away for a day or two, darlings. Yes, Iâll be going on a trip. An exciting trip! To Paree!â He started to chuckle.
He picked up the briefcase and felt all over it with his hands. âAnd to think, in a few days, a pentagonal will be packed in this suitcase and on its way to that hairy monster of a Sponge! Oh! Itâs not fair. But itâs very exciting. Oh yes!â He put his eye to the hole, trying to peer inside. He couldnât see anything except darkness, but Squiggle got a good look at his face. He had a skinny, spotted, liver-colored face with a thin nose like a knife. When he grinned, Squiggle could see that he had only three teeth, each one pointing a different direction. And he had a black eye-patch over his left eye. His gray hair stuck up on the top of his head as if something had startled him; but it was only the natural way his hair grew.
âLittle briefcase,â he said, grinning and chuckling and snuffling, âyou and I are off to Paree. Thereâs no time to lose!â
In a few minutes he had gathered together a few things, put on his coat, and left, locking the metal door behind him.
Â
Â
Â
18
I hope you never have to travel to Paris, or anywhere, inside of a briefcase. Even with a towel to pad her, Squiggle was banged, bumped, bruised, bounced, and boggled. She didnât eat any of the plastic leaves because she had no appetite at all. The motion made her seasick. And the trip seemed to take forever! I wonât tell you everything about it, because it was a horribly boring trip in total darkness. Mr. Sclera talked to himself almost constantly and she had to listen carefully to try to figure out where they were. For example, once he said, âAh, such an amazing thing, an airport!â and thatâs how she knew they had gotten to the airport. But long before the trip was over, she was sick of his snuffly voice and his constant muttering about the pentagonal eyeball.
When they arrived in Paris, they didnât go right to the Eiffel Tower. It wasnât time yet; it was only late morning. Daylight filtered in through the hole in the side of the case. Squiggle could hear the outside sounds of the street. She felt betterâonly a very little betterâbeing carried through the street, because the fresh air came in through the hole.
Mr. Sclera spent hours and hours sitting in cafes, or wandering around aimlessly, stopping every few steps to look at something. He was enjoying Paris in the slow, pokey way of an old man. But Squiggle wasnât enjoying it at all. She felt like she had always been inside that briefcase, and would die if she had to stay in it for even a moment longer. She tried to be patient.
In the evening they went to a restaurant to wait. Mr. Sclera ordered a salad for dinner and put the briefcase on the ground between his feet while he slobbered over his food. Finally he finished and got up to leave. As he shuffled away from the restaurant Squiggle could tell that they were nearing the end of the journey, because Mr. Sclera muttered to himself, âYes, here we are, almost, and I havenât seen the Eiffel Tower in, ugh, five years. And this, the eyeball capital of the world! I should come more often. Here it is, yes, how nice to see you again, Madam Eiffel. Ha ha!â He put the briefcase down on the ground and Squiggle heard his footsteps fading away.
His instructions from Toby were to set the case at the northwest foot of the Eiffel Tower. Then he was supposed to leave and not look back. But Mr. Sclera wanted desperately to see the secret contact person. He thought that once he saw the personâs face he might be able to find him again, or follow him, or figure out some clever way to steal the pentagonal eyeball. Toby was exactly rightâMr.
âThere now, darlings,â the man said. âEat up, eat up! Iâll be away for a day or two, darlings. Yes, Iâll be going on a trip. An exciting trip! To Paree!â He started to chuckle.
He picked up the briefcase and felt all over it with his hands. âAnd to think, in a few days, a pentagonal will be packed in this suitcase and on its way to that hairy monster of a Sponge! Oh! Itâs not fair. But itâs very exciting. Oh yes!â He put his eye to the hole, trying to peer inside. He couldnât see anything except darkness, but Squiggle got a good look at his face. He had a skinny, spotted, liver-colored face with a thin nose like a knife. When he grinned, Squiggle could see that he had only three teeth, each one pointing a different direction. And he had a black eye-patch over his left eye. His gray hair stuck up on the top of his head as if something had startled him; but it was only the natural way his hair grew.
âLittle briefcase,â he said, grinning and chuckling and snuffling, âyou and I are off to Paree. Thereâs no time to lose!â
In a few minutes he had gathered together a few things, put on his coat, and left, locking the metal door behind him.
Â
Â
Â
18
I hope you never have to travel to Paris, or anywhere, inside of a briefcase. Even with a towel to pad her, Squiggle was banged, bumped, bruised, bounced, and boggled. She didnât eat any of the plastic leaves because she had no appetite at all. The motion made her seasick. And the trip seemed to take forever! I wonât tell you everything about it, because it was a horribly boring trip in total darkness. Mr. Sclera talked to himself almost constantly and she had to listen carefully to try to figure out where they were. For example, once he said, âAh, such an amazing thing, an airport!â and thatâs how she knew they had gotten to the airport. But long before the trip was over, she was sick of his snuffly voice and his constant muttering about the pentagonal eyeball.
When they arrived in Paris, they didnât go right to the Eiffel Tower. It wasnât time yet; it was only late morning. Daylight filtered in through the hole in the side of the case. Squiggle could hear the outside sounds of the street. She felt betterâonly a very little betterâbeing carried through the street, because the fresh air came in through the hole.
Mr. Sclera spent hours and hours sitting in cafes, or wandering around aimlessly, stopping every few steps to look at something. He was enjoying Paris in the slow, pokey way of an old man. But Squiggle wasnât enjoying it at all. She felt like she had always been inside that briefcase, and would die if she had to stay in it for even a moment longer. She tried to be patient.
In the evening they went to a restaurant to wait. Mr. Sclera ordered a salad for dinner and put the briefcase on the ground between his feet while he slobbered over his food. Finally he finished and got up to leave. As he shuffled away from the restaurant Squiggle could tell that they were nearing the end of the journey, because Mr. Sclera muttered to himself, âYes, here we are, almost, and I havenât seen the Eiffel Tower in, ugh, five years. And this, the eyeball capital of the world! I should come more often. Here it is, yes, how nice to see you again, Madam Eiffel. Ha ha!â He put the briefcase down on the ground and Squiggle heard his footsteps fading away.
His instructions from Toby were to set the case at the northwest foot of the Eiffel Tower. Then he was supposed to leave and not look back. But Mr. Sclera wanted desperately to see the secret contact person. He thought that once he saw the personâs face he might be able to find him again, or follow him, or figure out some clever way to steal the pentagonal eyeball. Toby was exactly rightâMr.
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