War of the World Records (25 page)

Mr. Whipple looked to Arthur and smiled. Arthur couldn't help but smile back.

“Don't misunderstand me,” his father added, “this family has not lost its zeal for record breaking—certainly not after the way it's brought us all together today. First thing tomorrow, we begin the task of winning the cup back from the Goldwins at the next championships, in spite of their precious rivalry contract. But tonight, we celebrate everything we accomplished this year. Let's enjoy second place while we've got it; we're not likely to have the experience ever again, now are we?”

Arthur and the other Whipples shook their heads.

“Very well then, let's get ourselves cleaned up and ready for the ceremony. The Goldwins may have placed first in the competition this year, but they've got another thing coming if they think they can top us tonight—in dignity or in style!”

The Whipples Accept Defeat

A
s the Whipples'
triple-decker limousine slowed to a halt outside the entrance of the Opulerium Theatre, Arthur's heart swelled with excitement and dread.

Though he had attended several WRWC Awards ceremonies before, this was the first time he had actually participated in the tournament—and thus, the first time he had not felt completely out of place there. And yet, these were not at all the circumstances under which he had hoped to attend his first awards ceremony as an official competitor. His participation in the tournament, after all, had ended rather disappointingly—and now, the legions of reporters and photographers swarming around the red carpet before him only served to remind him of that fact.

He felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

“Arthur,” Mr. Whipple said with a smile, “will you do us the honor of leading us out?”

“I—I don't know, sir,” Arthur replied. “Do you really think that's appropriate? I mean, wouldn't you rather have someone representing us who actually won an event?”

“Indeed, I would not,” answered his father. “Do you still not believe me, boy? When I said I could not be any prouder of you, I meant it. Perhaps you'll doubt me less when you see your entire family following you up the red carpet. So now then . . . after you.”

Mr. Whipple gestured to the car door, and Arthur drew a deep breath. “Well, if you're absolutely certain you want me to . . .”

Mr. Whipple nodded.

“All right then,” Arthur nodded back.

Wilhelm appeared outside the car window, and Arthur quickly straightened his bow tie and adjusted his lapel. A moment later, the valet opened the door.

Strobing blasts of white light struck the boy as he stepped from the car, freezing his limbs and face in various poses: his foot meeting the plush pile of the crimson carpet; his hand tugging on a cufflink; his top lip curled in startled astonishment.

The frequency of flashbulb-fire decreased considerably as the cameramen realized the boy's identity—but it was still more media attention than Arthur had ever received, so he thought nothing of the falloff and simply walked through the parted sea of celebrity seekers.

“Arthur,” shouted one reporter, “that was quite an attempt you made this evening! You really had the crowd on the edge of their seats!”

Arthur turned to the reporter and smiled. Not only was this the first time he'd received a compliment from a reporter, it was the first time he'd ever been addressed by a reporter at all. He felt so honored and privileged, he could scarcely remember why it was he'd been feeling so disappointed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I'm glad people got to see a good speed-stocking match. I hope it helps spread awareness of this fine, underappreciated sport. Of course,” he added with a smile, “I'd have liked to have won it as well, but I'm afraid tonight just wasn't my night.”

“Indeed it wasn't,” the reporter said, frowning. “Does it trouble you to think you may have missed your last chance to live up to your family's now-fading reputation? And what do you say to speculation that your loss today could be the final nail in the Whipples' coffin?”

Arthur's mouth hung open. “Er . . . I . . .” he stuttered.

The reporter pressed the microphone into Arthur's chin.

“I—well . . .”

At that moment, Arthur's father stepped in front of him. “My son, I am happy to say,” Mr. Whipple interjected, “has no need at all to prove himself a part of this family. He is—and always will be—as valued a Whipple as any other.”

Arthur looked back to see his entire family standing behind him, smiling in agreement with their father as flashbulbs went off around them.

“And as for our family's reputation and future,” continued Mr. Whipple, “you can rest assured we shall not be leaving the world records game anytime soon—though we do hope to be known henceforth for more than just record breaking. In fact, tonight we would like to announce the beginning of a new era in our family's history. From now on, we . . .”

But before Arthur's father could finish his sentence, the reporter yanked the microphone away—and joined the rest of the crowd in a sudden scurry back toward the street.

Arthur and the other Whipples turned just in time to see a gold-plated car eleven doors long pull up to the curb and stop.

For several seconds nothing happened, save the continued pop of flashbulbs. But then, in perfect synchronization, all eleven doors opened at once—and out stepped the Goldwins, one through each door.

The crowd of reporters swarmed about them.

“Rex!” one man shouted. “How does it feel to have finally put an end to the Whipples' reign?”

“Rupert!” shouted another. “Is it true you've been chosen as
The Record
's Boy of the Year?”

Though the Whipples were too far away to hear the Goldwins' responses, the questions were upsetting enough in themselves. Left alone at the top of the red carpet, Arthur and his siblings looked to their father in dismay.

Mr. Whipple only smiled. “It's all right,” he said. “Let the dog have his day. Tonight our sole concern is having fun. You remember
fun
, don't you? It's that thing we used to have before we became completely obsessed with beating the Goldwins. Now, I realize I was largely to blame for that; I have not exactly been ‘Mr. Fun' these past months. But tonight, that all changes. Tonight, I am indeed Mr. Fun—no,
Dr.
Fun. Dr. Fun, with a doctorate in Funology. And a master's in Leisure Sciences.”

Mr. Whipple gripped his lapel and pulled a comically serious face. “Hey, look,” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing through the lobby doors. “With everyone off chasing the Goldwins, there's no wait at the Chocolate Bar! Who wants first bite of a chocolate barstool?”

And with that, he dashed for the doorway.

The Whipple children raced after their father and into the theater lobby, leaving all thoughts of the Goldwins behind them.

When George had finished the last drop of chocolate sauce from the chocolate hip flask he had sneaked into the darkened theater under his jacket, he took a bite of the flask itself, then passed it to Arthur.

After biting off the top corner, Arthur offered a bite to Ruby in the seat to his left, then handed it back to his little brother, who proceeded to pass it to the rest of the Whipple children to his right. As it reached the other end of the row, Mr. Whipple glanced disapprovingly at the chocolaty lump of contraband—then grinned slyly and finished it off in one bite.

A spotlight popped on at center stage to reveal a short, balding man behind a microphone. Arthur recognized him instantly as “Nonstop” Norman Prattle, the same man who had hosted the Whipple Family Birthday Extravaganza several months earlier.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” said Nonstop Norman in his rich, nasally voice, “to the fifty-eighth World Record World Championships Awards!”

The audience applauded.

“And what a year it's been for world-record breaking, has it not? Let's see. . . .” The announcer scratched his head. “We've had tragic falls, epic rises, villainous treachery, and vulgar scandal . . . and that was just at the Whipples' birthday party!”

The audience hooted with laughter.

Arthur looked to his father, expecting to see a picture of outrage—but to the boy's surprise, his father simply stood from his seat and bowed playfully to the crowd.

The audience laughed even louder.

“That's right folks,” shouted Nonstop Norman, “enjoy him while you can—this may be the last we'll ever see of him!”

The laughter swelled again.

Mr. Whipple saluted the announcer with a wry smile, then returned to his seat.

“And there he goes, ladies and gents—a member of a vanishing species:
Whipplus obsoletus
!”

This time, the laughter sounded a bit forced.

“All right—I'd better get on with it then. Wouldn't want the Whipples to sic their sabotaging chef on me, would I? Oh wait—he's off in hiding now, isn't he? Word on the street is he's been taken in by a family of sewer rats—but they're afraid to eat his cooking!”

The crowd fidgeted in their seats. Even they, it seemed, had
some
standards.

“Ahem,” coughed Nonstop Norman. “Presenting the first award of the evening, for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Human Strength—five-time beef-lifting champion and founder of the Prime Cut Butcher Shop and Alternative Gym—Tony Stoutberger!”

• • •

Over the next two hours, a team of celebrity presenters distributed awards in each of the eighty-five IWRF-recognized categories of world-record breaking.

Despite the rather grating comments of the show's host, Arthur and his family managed to enjoy themselves in a way they had never managed to do before. Seeing for the first time that the Championship Cup could be taken from them, the Whipples were all the more grateful for the awards they did receive. Though it was difficult to watch the Goldwins' trainer, Rinaldo Fabroni, win the Human Strength award over their own dear butler, Wilhelm, the Whipples could hardly contain their pride when the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Unsafe Sport went to their son Henry. And while they had to sit through Rupert Goldwin accepting the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Hygiene, and then his sister, Rosalind, being honored for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Bone Structure, the Whipples also got to watch Beatrice receive the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Food Consumption—and Franklin, for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Seafaring.

In fact, the Whipples enjoyed themselves so much, that Arthur nearly forgot about all the harrowing ordeals he'd suffered before the awards ceremony had begun. That is, of course, until the award for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Reaching High-Up Objects went to a certain Royston Goldwin.

Unsurprisingly, Royston was not available to accept the award in person—but Rex happily accepted the award on his son's behalf, explaining that Royston was “traveling abroad at present” and that he expressed his regrets. Arthur and his family did their best not to lose their composure as they watched their rival lie through his teeth into the microphone.

Luckily, the next award was for Extraordinary Achievement in Records of Diverse Disciplines, presented to Arthur's little brother George for Holding Records in More Categories than Anyone Else on Earth. As the Whipples applauded their youngest son's accomplishment, their hearts grew lighter once more.

• • •

By the time the show's closing segment arrived, Arthur's family had amassed quite a substantial haul—larger, in fact, than they'd managed to collect at any previous competition. In trying to defeat the Goldwins, it seemed, they had become better competitors in general. It was only a minor consolation, but it did give them some comfort as they prepared themselves for what was to come next.

When all the other awards had been presented, Nonstop Norman approached the microphone one last time. “And now,” the host announced, “to present our final—and most prestigious—award of the evening: the World Record World Championship Cup, please welcome—star of
Cleopatra's Cats!
and the upcoming
Song of Salome
—the World's Highest-Paid Actress—Bianca Bainbridge!”

The audience applauded loudly.

Arthur looked down the row at his family and thought about everything that had brought him to this point.

As much as he had enjoyed himself that evening, it was difficult not to focus on his regrets. He wished he could have given his family that last world record they'd needed to win the Championship Cup. He wished he could have known the feeling of holding a world record trophy in his hand. He wished he could go back and do it all differently. . . .

Arthur stopped himself.

True, it had been the most horrifying, heartbreaking day of his life—but, somehow, it had also been the very best. Today, he had been reunited with a true friend, with whom he had outwitted a pair of highly skilled assassins bent on their demise. Today, his family had forfeited their own events to come and rescue him. Today, his father had been truly proud of him, in spite of his recordlessness.

Indeed, he had had more wishes granted in one day than he had ever had granted in his entire lifetime. How could he complain about
that
?

Up at the front, a long-legged woman in a diamond-studded gown strode onto the stage. Slowly, a giant golden trophy emerged from an opening at the stage's center.

Perched on a broad wooden pedestal, the Championship Cup stood nearly four feet tall and measured thirty inches wide from one handle to the other. Its finish was so highly polished it appeared to be forged from a golden looking glass rather than any sort of metal.