Search for the Sunlight

The rain fell continuously throughout the night and in the morning, Sherlock rose from his sack in the foulest of moods. He had been awakened - far too early in his opinion - first by Basil and his glasses of truth and then, a short time later, by the incessant sound of squeaking wheels!

It all began at about 5:00a.m. with the coconut milkman and then again twenty minutes later with the wooden postman and now the whole of the regular workforce were up and about, wheeling to and fro, grinding and squeaking, as they went about their daily business on flat tyres and worn out bearings.

For Basil and the brothers, it wasn’t so bad. They had managed to sleep through most of it, but Sherlock was particularly sensitive when it came to anything mechanical that squeaked. He was from a family with a long history in engineering and, as a result, he couldn’t stand the sound of a single dry bearing, let alone six hundred or so. With great restraint, he had suffered the cacophony in silence, but even a normally tolerant and disciplined wood policeman could only take so much!

With his patience frazzled, he stomped across the room, opened the front door and roared across the Plateau in the direction of the commuters.

“Will somebody please oil those blasted wheels before I go crazy!”

Douglas Dunlop, a pacifist by nature, was thoroughly taken aback by Sherlock’s aggressive stance. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned sharply and sped over to the doorway where the Constable stood, in his pyjamas. In the humblest manner, he apologised for the upset he and his comrades had unintentionally caused their guests. He explained first, that over the years they had become accustomed to the continuous squeaking and didn’t really notice it anymore and, second, that the Rummage brothers - two wide boys who owned the scrapyard in the valley - had a plentiful supply of oil and spare parts, but the problem was, with their limited downhill travelling capabilities, no one was able to get down there and back again. Sherlock took a deep breath and thought for a moment. He was determined to sort out this nuisance, for everyone’s sake.

“Haarryyy!” he bellowed. Get yourself down to the scrap yard in the valley and get some oil from these Rummage brothers, or whatever they call themselves, before I go berserk!”

With both his temper and his pyjama trousers frayed at the edges, he turned on his heel and with and angry grunt, stomped off back inside the comfonarium and slammed the door, tight shut.

Meanwhile, a suitably intimidated Douglas Dunlop jotted down all the required spare parts, including directions to the scrapyard, and gave the list to Harry.

The young Hawthorn was still half asleep, but the cold drizzling rain soon brought him round. He looked at Douglas’s instructions, just to be sure that everything was clear then, slipping his empty lapsack over his shoulders, he climbed dutifully through a hole in the safety fence and made his way down the steep slope to do business with the infamous Rummage brothers.