The Phantom Tollbooth. Norton Juster

an A to taste.

      “I knew you’d like it,” laughed the letter man, popping two Gs and an R into his mouth and letting the juice drip down his chin. “As are one of our most popular letters. All of them aren’t so good,” he confided in a low voice. “Take the Z, for instance – very dry and sawdusty. And the X? Why, it tastes like a trunkful of stale air. That’s why people hardly ever use them. But most of the others are quite tasty. Try some more.”

      He gave Milo an I, which was icy and refreshing, and Tock a crisp, crunchy C.

      “Most people are too lazy to make their own words,” he continued, “but it’s much more fun.”

      “Is it difficult? I’m not much good at making words,” admitted Milo, spitting the pips from a P.

      “Perhaps I can be of some assistance – a-s-s-i-s-t-a-n-c-e,” buzzed an unfamiliar voice, and when Milo looked up he saw an enormous bee, at least twice his size, sitting on top of the wagon.

      “I am the Spelling Bee,” announced the Spelling Bee. “Don’t be alarmed – a-l-a-r-m-e-d.”

      Tock ducked under the wagon, and Milo, who was not over fond of normal-sized bees, began to back away slowly.

      “I can spell anything – a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g,” he boasted, testing his wings. “Try me, try me!”

      “Can you spell goodbye?” suggested Milo as he continued to back away.

      The bee gently lifted himself into the air and circled lazily over Milo’s head.

      “Perhaps – p-e-r-h-a-p-s – you are under the misapprehension – m-i-s-a-p-p-r-e-h-e-n-s-i-o-n – that I am dangerous,” he said, turning a smart loop to the left. “Let me assure – a-s-s-u-r-e – you that my intentions are peaceful – p-e-a-c-e-f-u-l.” And with that he settled back on top of the wagon and fanned himself with one wing. “Now,” he panted, “think of the most difficult word you can and I’ll spell it. Hurry up, hurry up!” And he jumped up and down impatiently.

      “He looks friendly enough,” thought Milo, not sure just how friendly a friendly bumblebee should be, and tried to think of a very difficult word. “Spell ‘vegetable’,” he suggested, for it was one that always troubled him at school.

      “That is a difficult one,” said the bee, winking at the letter man. “Let me see now…hmmmmmm…” He frowned and wiped his brow and paced slowly back and forth on top of the wagon. “How much time do I have?”

      “Just ten seconds,” cried Milo excitedly. “Count them off, Tock.”

      “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” the bee repeated, continuing to pace nervously. Then, just as the time ran out, he spelled as fast as he could – “v-e-g-e-t-a-b-l-e”.

      “Correct,” shouted the letter man, and everyone cheered.

      “Can you spell everything?” asked Milo admiringly.

      “Just about,” replied the bee with a hint of pride in his voice. “You see, years ago I was just an ordinary bee minding my own business, smelling flowers all day, and occasionally picking up part-time work in people’s bonnets. Then one day I realized that I’d never amount to anything without an education and, being naturally adept at spelling, I decided that—”

      “BALDERDASH!” shouted a booming voice. And from behind the wagon stepped a large beetle-ink insect, dressed in a lavish coat, striped trousers, checked waistcoat, spats, and a derby hat. “Let me repeat – BALDERDASH!” he shouted again, swinging his cane and clicking his heels in mid-air. “Come now, don’t be ill-mannered. Isn’t someone going to introduce me to the little boy?”

      “This,” said the bee with complete disdain, “is the Humbug. A very dislikable fellow.”

      “NONSENSE! Everyone loves a Humbug,” shouted the Humbug. “As I was saying to the king just the other day—”

      “You’ve never met the king,” accused the bee angrily. Then, turning to Milo, he said, “Don’t believe a thing this old fraud says.”

      “BOSH!” replied the Humbug. “We’re an old and noble family, honourable to the core – Insecticus Humbugium, if I may use the Latin. Why, we fought in the Crusades with Richard the Lionheart, crossed the Atlantic with Columbus, blazed trails with the pioneers, and today many members of the family hold prominent government positions throughout the world. History is full of Humbugs.”

      “A very pretty speech – s-p-e-e-c-h,” sneered the bee. “Now why don’t you go away? I was just advising the lad of the importance of proper spelling.”

      “BAH!” said the bug, putting an arm round Milo. “As soon as you learn to spell one word, they ask you to spell another. You can never catch up – so why bother? Take my advice, my boy, and forget about it. As my great-great-great-grandfather George Washington Humbug used to say—”

      “You, sir,” shouted the bee very excitedly, “are an imposter – i-m-p-o-s-t-e-r – who can’t even spell his own name.”

      “A slavish concern for the composition of words is the sign of a bankrupt intellect,” roared the Humbug, waving his cane furiously.

      Milo didn’t have any idea what this meant, but it seemed to infuriate the Spelling Bee, who flew down and knocked off the Humbug’s hat with his wing.

      “Be careful,” shouted Milo as the bug swung his cane again, catching the bee on the foot and knocking over the box of Ws.

      “My foot!” shouted the bee.

      “My hat!” shouted the bug – and the fight was on.

      The Spelling Bee buzzed dangerously in and out of range of the Humbug’s wildly swinging cane as they menaced and threatened each other, and the crowd stepped back out of danger.

      “There must be some other way to—” began Milo. And then he yelled, “WATCH OUT,” but it was too late.

      There was a tremendous crash as the Humbug in his great fury tripped into one of the stalls, knocking it into another, then another, then another, then another, until every stall in the market place had been upset and the words lay scrambled in great confusion all over the square.

      The bee, who had tangled himself in some bunting, toppled to the ground, knocking Milo over on top of him, and lay there shouting, “Help! Help! There’s a little boy on me.” The bug sprawled untidily on a mound of squashed letters and Tock, his alarm ringing persistently, was buried under a pile of words.

       Chapter Five SHORT SHRIFT

      “DONE WHAT YOU’VE looked,” angrily shouted one of the salesmen. He meant to say, “Look what you’ve done,” but the words had got so hopelessly mixed up that no one could make any sense at all.

      “Do going to we what are!” complained another, as everyone set about straightening things up as well as they could.

      For several minutes no one spoke an understandable sentence, which added greatly to the confusion. As soon as possible, however, the stalls were righted and the words swept into one large pile for sorting.