moment that Heckie came back. She was not in a good temper because as she had been hovering in a dark lane, hoping for the mugger, a kind policeman had come and insisted on seeing her home.
‘The dragworm’s off his food. He won’t eat his princess.’ Daniel was upset. When your parents have told you for years and years that you’re no good, you don’t have much confidence, and Daniel was beginning to wonder if he’d done something wrong.
Heckie frowned. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if he’s sickening for anything. I hope he’s not going to turn faddy.’
She broke off a leg and held it under the drag-worm’s nose. Once again, the dragworm turned away and if he’d been able to speak, there’s no doubt that what he would have said was: ‘Yuk!’
Daniel now took Heckie into the kitchen and showed her exactly what he had used to bake the gingerbread: the flour, the sugar, the spices, the honey . . .
‘And one of these,’ he said, holding up the carton which had the words FRESH FARM EGGS stamped on the box. ‘But it wasn’t rotten. I smelled it carefully.’
There were five eggs left in the carton. Heckie picked up one and carried it to the window. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear !’ And then: ‘No wonder the poor dear creature wouldn’t eat. For a wickedness detector an egg like this would be quite impossible to swallow.’
Daniel was puzzled. ‘But surely . . . an egg can’t be wicked, can it?’
Heckie was still holding the egg to the light and shaking her head to and fro. ‘Not wicked, perhaps. But unhappy . . . full of bad vibes.’
‘An egg !’
‘Why not? An egg is made up of the same things as a person. Everything in nature can suffer – plants . . . seaweed . . . Seaweed can be absolutely wretched , you must have seen that.’
So they gave the dragworm some dog biscuits, which he ate, and it was decided that Daniel would go to the market first thing in the morning and ask the stallholder where she got her eggs.
‘Because an unhappy egg means an unhappy chicken,’ said Heckie, ‘and an unhappy chicken we cannot and will not allow.’
The lady who had sold Daniel the fresh farm eggs was helpful. They came, she said, from the Tritlington Poultry Unit, about ten miles north of Wellbridge.
‘They weren’t bad, I hope?’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ve been promised they’re not more than two days old.’
Daniel said, no, they weren’t bad, not like that.
Two hours later, he got off the local train at Tritlington. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the little station was almost empty. He asked the way to the poultry unit and was directed down a footpath which ran across two fields, and over the river, to some low, corrugated iron buildings.
‘But he won’t thank you for going there,’ the station-master told Daniel.
‘Who won’t?’ asked Daniel.
‘Mr Ticker. The owner. Keeps himself to himself, does Mr Ticker.’
As Daniel made his way down the path, he wondered if he had been wise to come alone. But both Sumi and Joe were helping out at home, and anyway what was the use of being a Wickedness Hunter if you didn’t do anything?
Mr Ticker’s poultry unit was surprisingly large. There were two buildings, each of which looked more like an aircraft hangar or a railway shed than a farm. A high fence surrounded the area and there were notices saying: KEEP OUT and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Daniel’s heart was beating rather fast, but he told himself not to be silly. Mr Ticker was only a chicken farmer; what could he do to him?
Daniel reached the door of the first shed. There was nobody to be seen: the high door was bolted and barred and above it was another notice saying NO ENTRY.
He walked over to the second building. Here the door was open a crack. He slipped inside.
The light was poor and at first, mercifully, Daniel could scarcely see. Only the smell hit him instantly: a truly awful smell of sickness and rottenness and decay.
Then came
‘The dragworm’s off his food. He won’t eat his princess.’ Daniel was upset. When your parents have told you for years and years that you’re no good, you don’t have much confidence, and Daniel was beginning to wonder if he’d done something wrong.
Heckie frowned. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if he’s sickening for anything. I hope he’s not going to turn faddy.’
She broke off a leg and held it under the drag-worm’s nose. Once again, the dragworm turned away and if he’d been able to speak, there’s no doubt that what he would have said was: ‘Yuk!’
Daniel now took Heckie into the kitchen and showed her exactly what he had used to bake the gingerbread: the flour, the sugar, the spices, the honey . . .
‘And one of these,’ he said, holding up the carton which had the words FRESH FARM EGGS stamped on the box. ‘But it wasn’t rotten. I smelled it carefully.’
There were five eggs left in the carton. Heckie picked up one and carried it to the window. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear !’ And then: ‘No wonder the poor dear creature wouldn’t eat. For a wickedness detector an egg like this would be quite impossible to swallow.’
Daniel was puzzled. ‘But surely . . . an egg can’t be wicked, can it?’
Heckie was still holding the egg to the light and shaking her head to and fro. ‘Not wicked, perhaps. But unhappy . . . full of bad vibes.’
‘An egg !’
‘Why not? An egg is made up of the same things as a person. Everything in nature can suffer – plants . . . seaweed . . . Seaweed can be absolutely wretched , you must have seen that.’
So they gave the dragworm some dog biscuits, which he ate, and it was decided that Daniel would go to the market first thing in the morning and ask the stallholder where she got her eggs.
‘Because an unhappy egg means an unhappy chicken,’ said Heckie, ‘and an unhappy chicken we cannot and will not allow.’
The lady who had sold Daniel the fresh farm eggs was helpful. They came, she said, from the Tritlington Poultry Unit, about ten miles north of Wellbridge.
‘They weren’t bad, I hope?’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ve been promised they’re not more than two days old.’
Daniel said, no, they weren’t bad, not like that.
Two hours later, he got off the local train at Tritlington. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the little station was almost empty. He asked the way to the poultry unit and was directed down a footpath which ran across two fields, and over the river, to some low, corrugated iron buildings.
‘But he won’t thank you for going there,’ the station-master told Daniel.
‘Who won’t?’ asked Daniel.
‘Mr Ticker. The owner. Keeps himself to himself, does Mr Ticker.’
As Daniel made his way down the path, he wondered if he had been wise to come alone. But both Sumi and Joe were helping out at home, and anyway what was the use of being a Wickedness Hunter if you didn’t do anything?
Mr Ticker’s poultry unit was surprisingly large. There were two buildings, each of which looked more like an aircraft hangar or a railway shed than a farm. A high fence surrounded the area and there were notices saying: KEEP OUT and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Daniel’s heart was beating rather fast, but he told himself not to be silly. Mr Ticker was only a chicken farmer; what could he do to him?
Daniel reached the door of the first shed. There was nobody to be seen: the high door was bolted and barred and above it was another notice saying NO ENTRY.
He walked over to the second building. Here the door was open a crack. He slipped inside.
The light was poor and at first, mercifully, Daniel could scarcely see. Only the smell hit him instantly: a truly awful smell of sickness and rottenness and decay.
Then came
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