For Your Paws Only (19 page)

As they passed over the dock where the Staten Island Ferry was berthed, another gust of wind shot the
Mayflower
out into the harbor in the direction of the sea. Glory turned to Bunsen. “I want to thank you for trying to rescue me,” she said. “It was very brave of you. I'm just sorry it turned out this way.”

Bunsen ducked his head modestly. “It was nothing.”

“I should have known Hotspur would try and dump me like so much garbage,” said Glory in disgust. “Double-crossing slimeball.”

“I thought you liked Hotspur!” Bunsen replied, looking up in surprise. “All those muscles! All that Shakespeare! He's such a mouse of action, so bold, so dashing, so—”

“Arrogant?” offered Glory. She shook her head. “No, Bunsen, there's only one mouse for me.”

“There is?” A tendril of hope sprang up in the lab mouse's heart.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Glory, smiling shyly at him.

A tide of joy surged through Bunsen. “Really?” he cried. “You mean it?”

Glory nodded.

“I feel six inches tall!” Bunsen crowed. With a mighty wriggle, he burst through his dental floss bonds and leaped to his hind paws.

Gorgonzola loomed into view. “Six inches of breakfast,
sì
!” he growled.

With him was Muenster Alexanderplatz. The German rat licked his lips. Gorgonzola's stomach growled. As the two hungry rats advanced, Glory and Bunsen shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. The two mice teetered on the deck's edge, cornered.

Dupont and Brie closed in behind the two mousivores. “Going someplace, short-tails?” sneered Dupont.

Bunsen pulled Glory up beside him. “Do you trust me?” he whispered.

“Huh?” said Glory, unable to tear her eyes off the rats, especially Brie. The Parisian she-rat was channeling Coco Chanel again, mentally sizing them up for some horrible rat garment.

“Do you trust me?” the lab mouse repeated urgently.

Glory looked at him. “With all my heart.”

Bunsen reached up, plucked something from his backpack, and buckled it around his waist. Then he clasped Glory tightly to him and dove off the side of the balloon.

“Hey!” screeched an astounded Dupont.

“
Zut alors
—my slippers!” cried Brie.

Gorgonzola and Muenster rushed forward, and as she and Bunsen dropped toward the sea like a pair of stones, Glory caught sight of their snouts jutting over the edge of the deck, snarling in frustrated hunger.

“Bunsen! What are you doing!” screamed Glory, her eyes wide with terror.

“Don't look down!” Bunsen reached a paw over his shoulder and pressed something on the gizmo he'd strapped to himself. There was a loud
hisssssss
—and suddenly their flight was arrested. The two mice hung suspended in midair for a moment, long enough for Bunsen to pass a strap around Glory and fasten her securely to his utility belt. Then he pressed another button and they shot straight back up toward the
Mayflower
.

“EEEEEEEOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!” cried Glory as they skyrocketed past the ship. “What the heck is this thing?”

“My latest invention,” Bunsen told her. “An experimental jet pack. I haven't worked all the bugs out yet.”

Glory craned her neck to peer over the lab mouse's shoulder. Bunsen was wearing what looked like a kazoo. Twin nozzles from trial-size cans of hair spray (foraged from a beauty salon Dumpster) stuck out of the bottom like dual tailpipes. “Bunsen,” she said, “you never cease to amaze me.”

Her colleague grinned. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” he replied. “I mean, besides what you said earlier. You know, about me being the only mouse for you and all.”

Bunsen maneuvered the kazoo-rocket over the ship until the two of them were just a few feet above the rats. Glory waggled her paw at Dupont. The Sewer Lord stared up at the two of them, livid with rage.

“You haven't seen the last of me!” he cried, thrashing his tail. “I'll make mousemeat of you yet!”

“Mousemeat?” Bunsen replied. “Look around you, Dupont! In a few hours, when that balloon starts to deflate, you'll be nothing but shark meat.”

The delegates of the Global Rodent Roundtable stirred uneasily.

“Even if it doesn't, it's a long, cold ride to wherever you're going,” added Glory.

“A long ride! What are we going to eat?” one of the rats wailed.

Gorgonzola pointed to Fumble. “Antipasto,” he growled. Six dozen pairs of red rat eyes swiveled toward the stout gray mouse. Fumble quailed.

“What was that about Minister of Mouse Affairs?” cried Glory. “Minister of In-Flight Meals is more like it!”

And with that, Bunsen aimed them toward shore. The two mice flew off, leaving the ship full of hungry rats—and one turntail of a mouse—far behind.

They flew onward in companionable silence, the only sound the gentle hiss from the kazoo's hair spray-powered engine. Soon, the
Mayflower
was a distant speck on the horizon. As the skyline of Manhattan grew closer, Glory felt herself finally relax.

All of a sudden the kazoo started to splutter.

“Uh-oh,” said Bunsen.

Glory stiffened in alarm. “What?”

“Um, we might be out of fuel. I've only tested this short-distance.”

As the kazoo-rocket sputtered, coughed, and finally died, Glory looked down at the water below them. “Good thing I can swim,” she said bravely.

“One more trick in my bag,” said Bunsen, tugging on his backpack yet again. A small parachute (made from a foraged dinner napkin) blossomed above them, slowing their rapid descent. “At least it will be a soft landing.”

“I'm sorry I got you into this!” said Glory. “Me and my stupid pride!”

“I can think of worse things than spending my last moments with the mouse that I, uh—the mouse that I, uh—” Bunsen hesitated. He drew a deep breath. What was he waiting for? It was now or never. “The mouse that I love,” he finished firmly.

“Oh Bunsen, I love you too!” cried Glory, her bright little eyes brimming with tears. “I'm just so sorry that it has to end this way!”

A large shadow swept over them, and the two mice looked up to see a seagull hovering a few feet above their parachute. A familiar face poked over the edge of its wings.

“Care for a lift?” said Squeak.

At her side was Bubble. He saluted briskly. “Would hardly be proper to leave you hanging like this,” he added, as the seagull swooped beneath Glory and Bunsen and caught them on its broad back.

“Thanks,” said Glory.

“We owe you one, remember?” said Squeak. “You saved our tails at Grand Central Station. Bubble and I thought it only fair to return the favor.”

“How did you talk him into it?” asked Bunsen, waving his paw at the seagull. Unlike pigeons, seagulls were notoriously unpredictable. Previous attempts to train them for spy-mice missions had not been successful.

Bubble held up a piece of pumpkin chocolate-chip
bread. “Bribery,” he said smugly. “Highly effective in our line of work, I've found.”

The four of them watched as the
Mayflower
disappeared over the horizon.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Bunsen.

“Bad rodents, don't you mean?” quipped Glory. “And speaking of rodents, what about Fumble?”

Squeak consulted a tiny compass that hung from her utility belt. “If the wind holds, we should be able to pick him up on the other side of the pond,” she reported. “That ship's on a direct course for England.”

“If he survives the trip,” said Bunsen. “Last we saw of him, he was on his way to becoming an appetizer.”

“Or a pair of slippers,” added Glory. “Or both.”

Bubble shook his head. “I highly doubt it. Dupont will never allow it. The information he possesses is far too valuable.”

“Well, he'd only be getting what he deserves,” said Glory, who was not at all regretful at the thought of her turntail colleague ending up as a rat snack. She shaded her eyes with her paw and gazed across the harbor. “Why don't you drop us off there,” she suggested, pointing to the Statue of Liberty. “It's close enough to shore for us to flag down a Pigeon Air taxi, and that way you can go straight to the airport.”

“Splendid idea,” Bubble replied. He held out another piece of pumpkin chocolate-chip bread for the seagull, and a short time later they landed atop Lady Liberty's torch.

“Do come visit us sometime,” said Bubble, as Glory and Bunsen climbed down from the bird's broad back. “You'd be most welcome in London, and I know Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury is eager to meet you.”

The two spy mice waved as the seagull bearing their British friends rose into the air.

“Cheerio, then—and good luck!” called Squeak.

“Cheerio!” echoed Glory. She turned to Bunsen and smiled. “Let's go home.”

DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 1800 HOURS

“You should have seen
their faces!” said Lavinia Levinson. “Fifty feet tall on every billboard in Times Square, plastered in pigeon poo.”

D. B. gave a snort of laughter, and Oz grinned at the recollection. He could smile now that he knew Glory and Bunsen were safe. B-Nut had sent them a message via pigeon post as soon as he got the news. Vinnie had reached them just before they left the Waldorf-Astoria to return home to Washington.

“I got it all on film, too,” added Amelia Bean proudly. “A real scoop for Channel Twelve.”

“A scoop of poo,” quipped D. B.'s father, and everyone laughed.

“I say it serves them right, the rascals,” Luigi Levinson said. “They had no business picking on our little sugarplums.”

He glanced fondly across the table at Oz and D. B.
Both families were gathered around the Levinsons' long dinner table for a celebratory Thanksgiving feast. Oz's father had been busy all day preparing for their triumphant return from New York. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet-potato casserole with miniature marshmallows—all of Oz's favorites. And pumpkin chocolate-chip bread, of course.

Just then the doorbell rang. Oz's father excused himself to answer it. He returned a moment later with a puzzled look on his face.

“Who was it?” asked Oz's mother.

Luigi Levinson shrugged. “I don't know,” he replied. “There was no one there. Just a pigeon on the railing. But this was on the doorstep.”

He handed a small package to Oz. The names Ozymandias Levinson and Delilah Bean were inscribed on the brown paper wrapping in very precise, very tiny handwriting.

“Looks like our two Bake-Off celebrities already have some fans.”

“Pretty soon they'll be asking for your autograph instead of ours,” added Oz's mother, winking at Amelia Bean.

D. B.'s mother leaned over and inspected the package curiously. “You almost need a magnifying glass to read that address.”

“Uh, can we be excused?” asked Oz, kicking D. B. under the table.

“Hey!” cried his friend, scowling. “What did you—oh. I mean, yeah, can we be excused?”

“Certainly,” said Luigi Levinson. “Clear your places first, please.”

Oz and D. B. carried their dishes to the kitchen, then ran up to Oz's room. Oz rummaged in his desk for a pair of scissors. He clipped the string and together he and D. B. unwrapped the package.

“Wow!” breathed Oz.

Inside were a pair of Popsicle-stick skateboards painted with silver nail polish.

“Oz!” said D. B., gazing at them in wonder. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

Oz steered the tiny skateboard around the top of his desk with a pudgy finger. There was a dreamy look in his eye. Even James Bond didn't have one of these. “I think so,” he replied. He poked through the small box and emerged with a tiny envelope. “Let's see what the note says.”

It was in code. D. B. got the magnifying glass while Oz fished the cipher wheel from his pocket. Together they decoded the message.

“FOR YOUR PAWS ONLY,” it began. “IN RECOGNITION OF ANOTHER GOOD JOB WELL DONE, WE AT THE SPY MICE AGENCY HEREBY EXTEND OUR DEEPEST THANKS AND PROMOTE YOU TO HONORARY SILVER-SKATEBOARD STATUS. THE WORLD IS YOURS.” It was signed “Julius Folger.”

“What does he mean, the world is yours?” asked D. B., staring at the piece of paper.

“Glory says that Silver Skateboard agents get all the glamorous overseas postings,” Oz explained.

D. B. grunted. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Chester B. Arthur Elementary is about as glamorous as
we
get.”

Oz poked at his glasses, then popped a wheelie on his desk with his new Popsicle-stick skateboard. “Well, we did get to go to New York, remember?”

“That's true,” D. B. replied.

“So you never know,” said Oz. “You just never know.”

DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 1800 HOURS

“You look fine, Bunsen,”
said Glory. “Relax.”

Across the street from the Levinsons' townhouse, the two mice were standing on the doorstep of the giant oak tree where the Goldenleaf family lived. Bunsen fidgeted nervously with his bow tie.

“Are you sure I have it on straight?” he squeaked, his nose and tail an anxious pink.

Glory plucked a small brass key from a pocket on her backpack and inserted it into her front door. It was a beautiful door, its elaborately carved pattern of intertwined leaves and acorns a mirror image of the nearby estate's iron gates. “Trust me,” she said. “You look very handsome.”

As they stepped inside, Bunsen looked about the entrance hall in wonder. It was very different from the sterile white walls and stainless-steel tables of the laboratory where he had been raised. Goldenleafs had lived on
the grounds of Dumbarton Oaks since the big brick mansion was first built back in the early 1800s, and their home reflected nearly two centuries of gracious living. The walls were painted the color of a ripe peach, and the oak floor, its honey-colored surface polished smooth by generations of Goldenleaf paws, gleamed in the light of a pair of birthday candles that flickered from paper-clip sconces.