The Wombles to the Rescue by Elisabeth Beresford Page B

will be pumped, by the bicycle pump, into the bucket which I’ll tie on here. It’ll travel up this tube here, shoot up – I think it’s called a gusher or something – and then we watch it as it all comes down again. OK?’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Tomsk, who had got lost about the third word.
    It was really quite difficult floating the rig out to the middle of the Mere because the ducks would keep coming to investigate what was happening and the more they swam round and made ripples, the more the rig rocked about and very nearly came off its floats.
    â€˜When . . . when I say one, two, three, go,’ said Wellington breathlessly, ‘we both pull our floats out from under the rig at the same time. We’ve got to do it carefully though, otherwise the rig might tip over.’
    â€˜What’s it supposed to do?’ asked Tomsk.
    â€˜Sink,’ snapped Wellington, who could hardly see anything by this time, as his spectacles had not only steamed over with excitement, but were also covered in water, so that he felt as if he was trying to look through paper.
    â€˜But how can it work if it sinks?’ asked Tomsk, who was getting more and more muddled by the whole project.
    â€˜I T ’ S SUPPOSED TO SINK . Are you ready? One, two, three – puuuuuuull .’
    The rig sank all right. The moment the floats were pulled from under it, down it went with a gurgling sound until with a clunk-clonk it hit the mud on the bottom, leaving about half of itself sticking out of the water. A great many large, flat bubbles rose slowly to the surface and swilled about for a moment or two and then burst. There was a distinctly rich, unusual smell.
    â€˜Oil,’ said Wellington, ‘that’s oil! We’ve hit oil!’
    â€˜Are you sure?’ asked Tomsk, who was treading water and holding his nose, because if this was what oil smelt like he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to know more about it.
    â€˜â€™Course I am. And it can’t be much below the bottom of the lake either. Now we’d better start the drilling bit. I want you to dive down, because you’re much better at diving than me, to spin the umbrella shaft. That will go down and down into the oil bed and then you start working the bicycle pump so that oil comes up to gush. It’s very good fun, isn’t it, Tomsk?’
    â€˜Yeees,’ said Tomsk a shade doubtfully, ‘but, Wellington . . .’
    â€˜Go on, go on. Please .’ Wellington waved both his front paws at once, his blue and black cap right over one eye and his face smiling from ear to ear.
    â€˜Oh, very well,’ said Tomsk and took a tremendous deep breath before he dived, which is how he missed everything that happened next.
    Wellington was still clutching on to the oil rig to keep it steady as, despite the iron railings, it did tend to tilt a bit, when suddenly there was the most extraordinary and fur-lifting sound from the bank. It was a roar, a bellow and a cry of anguish and it was far, far worse than the wolf noise which Wellington had made some days before.
    Wellington’s fur stood up in prickles and he just managed to keep his grip on the oil rig as he looked over his shoulder and saw a small, round, grey-white Womble, wearing a straw hat and an apron, come tearing down the slope with a fishing net in one hand and a home-made telescope in the other.
    â€˜Vandals, wreckers, destroyers,’ roared Cousin Botany. ‘What are you doing, eh? Oh, leave off, leave off, do! All my years and years and YEARS of work all gone for nothing! Wait till I gets my paws on you, just wait!’
    â€˜But, Cousin Botany,’ said Wellington, ‘I don’t understand. What’s the matter? What are you so upset about? What have we done that’s wrong?’
    â€˜That’s what you’ve done,’ roared Cousin Botany, pointing with one trembling paw at the oil rig which had now settled down firmly with its