house’. She believed that all the litter that blew on to her patch was put there by mischievous children. If a ball or a toy landed in her garden, she darted out and confiscated it. She was always in a bad mood, and things were made worse for her because the children teased her. Making her angry was something of a sport. Peter’s parents said she was a little mad and deserved pity. They always tried to be pleasant to her. But for the children it was hard to feel pity for a grown- up with yellow fangs who was chasing you up the street.
So Peter did not mind so much when Mrs Goodgame’s soap and stick were carried away. He was beginning to feel some respect for this burglar. He decided to call him Soapy Sam. What a daredevil he was to take on a whole street, house after house, in ascending order. He seemed to be asking to be caught!
The months passed, a few more houses were done. Numbers fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-seven. There could be no doubt about it. Soapy was heading Peter’s way, number thirty-eight.
Peter had spent much time making calculations with pencil and paper. As far as he could tell, there was no pattern to the house numbers the burglar chose. But if he came at all, the burglar would be due in their house in less than two weeks. Perhaps it would be missed out. Peter knew he would be disappointed if that happened. Without telling anyone, he had resolved that he was going to be the one who was going to catch Soapy Sam.
The weekend before Soapy was expected, Thomas and Viola Fortune made preparations. Thomas Fortune fastened shut the windows by drilling long screws through the frames. He installed stronger locks on the front and back doors and he padlocked the gate round the side of the house. He tried to put in a do-it-yourself burglar alarm, but he hit his thumb with a hammer while tacking electric wire to a wall, which put him in a terrible mood. Worse still, the alarm didn’t work. There was no time to get a proper one in place, and besides, it wouldn’t stop Soapy Sam.
Viola Fortune carried her favourite gardening tools indoors. She went from room to room gathering up paintings, ornaments, lamps and valuable books and locked them in a cupboard at the top of the house. Peter and Kate hid their favourite toys under their beds. It was as if what was coming up the street was a hurricane, a whirlwind, a typhoon that would snatch away everything they had. In fact, it was just one little old thief who was rather clever at his job. But was he cleverer than Peter?
Peter began to plan his campaign. His first problem was this: if he was going to catch the thief he was going to have to be at home, and that meant getting off school. He could fake an illness, but he had to be careful. He had to pitch it exactly right. If he pretended too hard, one of his parents would take time off work to look after him. Soapy Sam would see there were people in the house and move on up the street. On the other hand, if Peter didn’t appear ill enough, he would be sent to school with a note excusing him from sports. If he got it right, he would be allowed to stay at home by himself, with Mrs Farrar, their kindly old neighbour, popping in every hour or so to check on him.
In the afternoons, home from school, he locked his bed- room door and practised looking droopy. Wanting to make himself look pale, he dusted his face with flour. In the mirror he resembled a corpse come to life. He chewed peppercorns to raise his temperature. It worked too well. His mouth and throat seemed to catch fire, and his temperature soared. He would have been rushed to hospital. He wondered if a sprained ankle might suit him better. He limped up and down the tiny floor space of his bedroom. He looked more like a boy who was turning into a crab.
He was still perfecting his illness three days later when he heard the news from his mother. Mr and Mrs Baden-Baden at number 34 had been burgled. Only two months before they had spent thousands on
So Peter did not mind so much when Mrs Goodgame’s soap and stick were carried away. He was beginning to feel some respect for this burglar. He decided to call him Soapy Sam. What a daredevil he was to take on a whole street, house after house, in ascending order. He seemed to be asking to be caught!
The months passed, a few more houses were done. Numbers fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-seven. There could be no doubt about it. Soapy was heading Peter’s way, number thirty-eight.
Peter had spent much time making calculations with pencil and paper. As far as he could tell, there was no pattern to the house numbers the burglar chose. But if he came at all, the burglar would be due in their house in less than two weeks. Perhaps it would be missed out. Peter knew he would be disappointed if that happened. Without telling anyone, he had resolved that he was going to be the one who was going to catch Soapy Sam.
The weekend before Soapy was expected, Thomas and Viola Fortune made preparations. Thomas Fortune fastened shut the windows by drilling long screws through the frames. He installed stronger locks on the front and back doors and he padlocked the gate round the side of the house. He tried to put in a do-it-yourself burglar alarm, but he hit his thumb with a hammer while tacking electric wire to a wall, which put him in a terrible mood. Worse still, the alarm didn’t work. There was no time to get a proper one in place, and besides, it wouldn’t stop Soapy Sam.
Viola Fortune carried her favourite gardening tools indoors. She went from room to room gathering up paintings, ornaments, lamps and valuable books and locked them in a cupboard at the top of the house. Peter and Kate hid their favourite toys under their beds. It was as if what was coming up the street was a hurricane, a whirlwind, a typhoon that would snatch away everything they had. In fact, it was just one little old thief who was rather clever at his job. But was he cleverer than Peter?
Peter began to plan his campaign. His first problem was this: if he was going to catch the thief he was going to have to be at home, and that meant getting off school. He could fake an illness, but he had to be careful. He had to pitch it exactly right. If he pretended too hard, one of his parents would take time off work to look after him. Soapy Sam would see there were people in the house and move on up the street. On the other hand, if Peter didn’t appear ill enough, he would be sent to school with a note excusing him from sports. If he got it right, he would be allowed to stay at home by himself, with Mrs Farrar, their kindly old neighbour, popping in every hour or so to check on him.
In the afternoons, home from school, he locked his bed- room door and practised looking droopy. Wanting to make himself look pale, he dusted his face with flour. In the mirror he resembled a corpse come to life. He chewed peppercorns to raise his temperature. It worked too well. His mouth and throat seemed to catch fire, and his temperature soared. He would have been rushed to hospital. He wondered if a sprained ankle might suit him better. He limped up and down the tiny floor space of his bedroom. He looked more like a boy who was turning into a crab.
He was still perfecting his illness three days later when he heard the news from his mother. Mr and Mrs Baden-Baden at number 34 had been burgled. Only two months before they had spent thousands on
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