Squash Anyone?

Presently, I woke to the sound of whining train brakes as the Caliban pulled into the Birmingham train station. Here the porter unloaded the remains of the late Ensign Cropper of the RBAC and kindly explained to the waiting police constable the circumstances of the tragic accident. The constable shook his head knowingly in response.

Meanwhile, railway labourers loaded three large crates clearly marked “Port of Varna” onto the luggage car. The Girl Guides seemed particularly interested in this development and all crowded onto my side of the compartment.

Additionally, we gained several new passengers, most notably Sir Edbert Bassington, the noted actor currently starring as the Duke Of Plaza-Toro in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Gondoliers.” He was a great ruddy faced man with a voracious appetite and a large walrus mustache (like most great British actors). Not unexpectedly, he was accompanied by several retainers including his personal manager, Mr. Frank, a tall, dark haired, sallow faced gentlemen of few words.

Other passengers included an old gypsy woman with a pet orang-utan who wore a derby and curiously dressed young man. This young man wore a large hat whose brim was up-turned on each side, chaps, boots, spurs, a brace of shiny nickel plated revolvers and a bandanna. He also carried a pitchfork and was chewing on a long piece of straw. In his free hand he carried a copy of the farmer’s almanac.

Instantly curious I introduced myself as a world traveler and amateur scientist/adventurer/playwright/swain. He on the other hand was quite laconic and merely noted that he was a simple farmer from America, here in England to attend a Beet Growers Convention.

“Well, you see, cantcha, that A’m jes a simple farmer; names’ Dave, Dave Beabout” he stated simply, pointing at his pitchfork.

“Ah yes, why of course” I replied and then added hastily “You see its rather amusing, because we have another passenger aboard by the name of ‘Pitchfork’ , quite funny don’t you think?”

“’Fraid I don’t get it mister” he answered and then turned away.

I suppose I should have realized that most farmers are quite the dour sort and often dullards with not a thought beyond what manner of vermin might be sneaking into the henhouse (no offense intended of course) and therefore turned back to my own business forthwith.

Luckily, the day was fairly clear and as we headed out of the station I could easily makes out the great gothic keepe set high atop Mt. Birmingham, the home of city’s mistress, Lady Darkholm - Orlock. Much to my surprise lightening then dramatically struck the uppermost tower of the keepe which was quite thrilling indeed!

Regrettably, however, this scene was quickly displaced by one of total darkness as we entered the tunnel which took us below the Horror Moor of Smethwick. Naturally, it is always preferable to travel under the moor at this time of year vice overland due to the wyvern menace.

After a few moments the interior lights came on once again and then I saw that another terrible accident had occurred. Mr. Frank was lying in the corridor, neatly sawn in half. Actually, I can only assume he was neatly sawn in half since only his top half remained.

Yet one more horror remained, however, for it was then I discovered that my new squash racquet had been smashed to splinters by the Girl Guides in their earlier haste to get a good look at those dashed crates! Oh the ignominy.