into any real trouble.â
âYeah,â agreed Artie. âWe men gotta stick together and look out for the little ladies.â
Pilot looked down at his companion. âArt-Bart, do me a favourâ donât say that when theyâre in earshot. And donât touch anything.â
âI will keep my hands inside the ride at all times!â quipped Artie as he took a shortcut, hopping through one side of a garish little railcar and out the other, and disappeared into the tent.
Following on his sneakered heels, Pilot seriously wondered if Artie even met the minimum height requirements.
6
THE MUMMY STRIKES OUT!
"H eeeyyyy!â Artie said as he stood peering closely into a dusty glass boxâclose enough that he left a nose print in the middle of one pane. Whatever the artifact inside was, it clearly had him excited. âCheck it out, little ladies â¦â He waved an arm, beckoning them over.
âBabe Ruthâs baseball! Itâs even signed!â
The others crowded around for a look.
Sure enough, the little brass plaque glued to the display case on a slightly wonky angle read:
B. RUTHâs First Home Run Hit!
⦠and the off-white orb on the stand in the middle of a square of artificial grass sported faded red stitching and a scrawled signature written in age-pale ink.
âUmm, are you sure?â Tweed asked, squinting at the ball. âThat signature looks more like âBob Ruthâ to me.â
âAlso?â Pilot straightened up and tapped the glass. â Thatâs a softball. I donât think Babe played slo-pitch.â
Artie looked a bit crestfallen. âMaybe in his spare time?â
Pilot shook his head and picked up an exhibit program from a stack on a crate, thumbing through the outlandish descriptions of what was, in all likelihood, just a bunch of old junk.
Artie frowned and tipped the glass case up, plucking the ball off its perch for a closer inspection. âHuh.â He said, peering at the thing. âWhaddaya know. Bob it is.â He shook his head and stuffed the ball in the bib of his overalls, trotting over to another case.
âHey!â Cheryl exclaimed. âThatâs not yours!â
âOh, yeah?â Artie shrugged, a defiant scowl pasted on his bespectacled mug. âWell itâs not Babeâs, either. So Iâm not stealinâ it from nobody. Find me out who it belongs to and Iâll give it back.â
âYou little monsterââ
Pilot rolled his eyes and stepped between the two of them before another scuffle broke out. âCâmon, Cher-bear. You know heâs not leaving here with that thing,â he said in a quiet voice. âWeâll make him put it back before we go. Just let him carry the silly thing around for a minute or heâs gonna cause a ruckus. And weâregonna get caught. Weâre here to check out the mummy princess, remember?â
Tweed was way ahead of them on that. Sheâd ignored Artieâs questionable Hall-of-Famer find and had already navigated her way through all of the other half-set-up display cases full of arcane and mysterious thingamajigs. Cheryl turned around in time to find her tugging at the edge of the cloth that shrouded the object on the stage.
One good yank and the dust sheet fell away, revealing an elaborately decorated casket painted to resemble what its occupant had no doubt looked like in life, over four thousand years earlier. The ancient Egyptian princess Zahara-Safiya.
Cheryl, Tweed and Pilot stood staring. Even Artie was rendered momentarily speechless.
After a few silent seconds, Cheryl rooted around in the pocket of her jeans, found a key chain penlight she liked to carry (it doubled as a handy space laser during games of ACTION!!) and shone it up into the image of the Princessâs face, rendered in once-vibrant colours and gold leaf, now faded with age.
âLittle heavy on the icing, donâtcha
Frankie Robertson
Neil Pasricha
Salman Rushdie
RJ Astruc
Kathryn Caskie
Ed Lynskey
Anthony Litton
Bernhard Schlink
Herman Cain
Calista Fox