How to Curse in Hieroglyphics by Lesley Livingston Page B

into any real trouble.”

    â€œYeah,” agreed Artie. “We men gotta stick together and look out for the little ladies.”
    Pilot looked down at his companion. “Art-Bart, do me a favour— don’t say that when they’re in earshot. And don’t touch anything.”
    â€œI will keep my hands inside the ride at all times!” 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!” Artie said as he stood peering closely into a dusty glass box—close enough that he left a nose print in the middle of one pane. Whatever the artifact inside was, it clearly had him excited. “Check it out, little ladies …” He waved an arm, beckoning them over.
    â€œBabe Ruth’s baseball! It’s even signed!”
    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. RUTH’s First Home Run Hit!
    â€¦ 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.

    â€œUmm, are you sure?” Tweed asked, squinting at the ball. “That signature looks more like ‘Bob Ruth’ to me.”
    â€œAlso?” Pilot straightened up and tapped the glass. “ That’s a softball. I don’t think Babe played slo-pitch.”
    Artie looked a bit crestfallen. “Maybe in his spare time?”
    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. “Huh.” He said, peering at the thing. “Whaddaya know. Bob it is.” He shook his head and stuffed the ball in the bib of his overalls, trotting over to another case.
    â€œHey!” Cheryl exclaimed. “That’s not yours!”
    â€œOh, yeah?” Artie shrugged, a defiant scowl pasted on his bespectacled mug. “Well it’s not Babe’s, either. So I’m not stealin’ it from nobody. Find me out who it belongs to and I’ll give it back.”
    â€œYou little monster—”
    Pilot rolled his eyes and stepped between the two of them before another scuffle broke out. “C’mon, Cher-bear. You know he’s not leaving here with that thing,” he said in a quiet voice. “We’ll make him put it back before we go. Just let him carry the silly thing around for a minute or he’s gonna cause a ruckus. And we’regonna get caught. We’re here to check out the mummy princess, remember?”
    Tweed was way ahead of them on that. She’d ignored Artie’s 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 Princess’s face, rendered in once-vibrant colours and gold leaf, now faded with age.
    â€œLittle heavy on the icing, don’tcha