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Authors: Matthew Ward
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that secured my record for Most Dominoes Single-Handedly Toppled. There were 378,000 dominoes in that setup, but this one has special powers.”
“Really?” said Arthur. “Was it the first in the chain—the one that started it all?”
“No, it wasn’t the first,” replied his uncle.
“Then was it the last—the one that actually set the record?”
“It was neither the first nor the last. In fact, I don’t remember which number it was. Somewhere in the eighty-thousands, I think.”
“But what’s so special about this one, then?” puzzled Arthur.
“This domino is just as remarkable as the first or the last. Because without
this
domino, the whole thing would have stopped dead. And that’s what gives this magical domino its power.”
Arthur’s brother Henry rolled his eyes at the word “magical.”
“Magical?” said Arthur, his eyes growing wide.
“All right, Arthur. That’s quite enough,” interjected Mrs. Whipple. “Now what do you say to your uncle Mervyn?”
“Thanks, Uncle Mervyn. Thank you very much.”
“Really, Mervyn,” Arthur’s mother added with an uneasy smile, “you didn’t need to get him anything—you’re too generous!”
This was not the first “magical” gift Arthur had received from his uncle—and Mrs. Whipple had not forgotten the troubles the last one had caused. After Uncle Mervyn had given the boy a magical gardening trowel (which, he’d explained, when used to dig a hole, had the unique power to increase the size of something by actually taking awayfrom it), Arthur had been inspired to attempt the record for Most Holes Dug in One’s Own Garden. The north lawn had never quite looked the same since.
“It was no trouble at all, Eliza,” Uncle Mervyn replied with a smile and a wink to his godson. “Surely a boy of Arthur’s age should never be without a magical object in his possession.”
Arthur smiled back, then turned reverently to his domino. As he reached down to pick up his uncle’s latest gift, he half expected a surge of electricity when he touched it—but the little black tile remained still as the boy gently dropped it into his shirt pocket.
The door opened and the lights dimmed. As Wilhelm carried in Arthur’s birthday cake alongside Sammy the Spatula, the dancing candlelight illuminated the butler’s thick handlebar mustache and cast large spiral shadows upon his rosy cheeks.
The cake, iced in plain white and topped with twelve slender candles, was neither very large nor very small, yet distinctive in a way currently quite obvious to the champion strongman who carried it.
“How do you like it, Arthur?” Mr. Whipple grinned. “At one ounce per cubic inch, it’s the Densest Cake Ever Baked—with a total weight of sixty-three pounds! Sammy tells me he devised the recipe in prison for use as a bludgeoning tool. Thrilling, isn’t it?”
Wilhelm set the cake in front of Arthur. The table groaned in protest.
“Yes,” replied Arthur, turning to the chef. “Thanks, Sammy. It’s really, um—monumental.”
Smiling uncomfortably, Sammy the Spatula leaned in to Arthur and whispered, “Sorry ’bout the cake, mate. Afraid we got our signals crossed, your parents and me. In the mayhem of party planning, I somehow got the impression they wanted a birthday-themed doorstop. Honestly, mate, if I’d known it were for you, I’d’ve suggested somefing a good bit tastier.”
“No, really, Sammy,” Arthur assured him, “it’s perfect.”
“No it ain’t, Arfur. And I aim to make it up to you. Bake a whole nuvver one tomorrow, I will—World’s Tastiest—just for you,” the chef winked cheerfully. “’Ow’s that sound?”
“Well,” Arthur smiled, “if you insist.”
“Indeed I do,” Sammy said with a nod.
At this, Simon and Cordelia launched into an accordion/violin rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” (less, perhaps, because it was Arthur’s birthday, than because it held the record for Most Popular Song in the English
“Really?” said Arthur. “Was it the first in the chain—the one that started it all?”
“No, it wasn’t the first,” replied his uncle.
“Then was it the last—the one that actually set the record?”
“It was neither the first nor the last. In fact, I don’t remember which number it was. Somewhere in the eighty-thousands, I think.”
“But what’s so special about this one, then?” puzzled Arthur.
“This domino is just as remarkable as the first or the last. Because without
this
domino, the whole thing would have stopped dead. And that’s what gives this magical domino its power.”
Arthur’s brother Henry rolled his eyes at the word “magical.”
“Magical?” said Arthur, his eyes growing wide.
“All right, Arthur. That’s quite enough,” interjected Mrs. Whipple. “Now what do you say to your uncle Mervyn?”
“Thanks, Uncle Mervyn. Thank you very much.”
“Really, Mervyn,” Arthur’s mother added with an uneasy smile, “you didn’t need to get him anything—you’re too generous!”
This was not the first “magical” gift Arthur had received from his uncle—and Mrs. Whipple had not forgotten the troubles the last one had caused. After Uncle Mervyn had given the boy a magical gardening trowel (which, he’d explained, when used to dig a hole, had the unique power to increase the size of something by actually taking awayfrom it), Arthur had been inspired to attempt the record for Most Holes Dug in One’s Own Garden. The north lawn had never quite looked the same since.
“It was no trouble at all, Eliza,” Uncle Mervyn replied with a smile and a wink to his godson. “Surely a boy of Arthur’s age should never be without a magical object in his possession.”
Arthur smiled back, then turned reverently to his domino. As he reached down to pick up his uncle’s latest gift, he half expected a surge of electricity when he touched it—but the little black tile remained still as the boy gently dropped it into his shirt pocket.
The door opened and the lights dimmed. As Wilhelm carried in Arthur’s birthday cake alongside Sammy the Spatula, the dancing candlelight illuminated the butler’s thick handlebar mustache and cast large spiral shadows upon his rosy cheeks.
The cake, iced in plain white and topped with twelve slender candles, was neither very large nor very small, yet distinctive in a way currently quite obvious to the champion strongman who carried it.
“How do you like it, Arthur?” Mr. Whipple grinned. “At one ounce per cubic inch, it’s the Densest Cake Ever Baked—with a total weight of sixty-three pounds! Sammy tells me he devised the recipe in prison for use as a bludgeoning tool. Thrilling, isn’t it?”
Wilhelm set the cake in front of Arthur. The table groaned in protest.
“Yes,” replied Arthur, turning to the chef. “Thanks, Sammy. It’s really, um—monumental.”
Smiling uncomfortably, Sammy the Spatula leaned in to Arthur and whispered, “Sorry ’bout the cake, mate. Afraid we got our signals crossed, your parents and me. In the mayhem of party planning, I somehow got the impression they wanted a birthday-themed doorstop. Honestly, mate, if I’d known it were for you, I’d’ve suggested somefing a good bit tastier.”
“No, really, Sammy,” Arthur assured him, “it’s perfect.”
“No it ain’t, Arfur. And I aim to make it up to you. Bake a whole nuvver one tomorrow, I will—World’s Tastiest—just for you,” the chef winked cheerfully. “’Ow’s that sound?”
“Well,” Arthur smiled, “if you insist.”
“Indeed I do,” Sammy said with a nod.
At this, Simon and Cordelia launched into an accordion/violin rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” (less, perhaps, because it was Arthur’s birthday, than because it held the record for Most Popular Song in the English
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