The Wombles Read Free

along?’
    ‘He’ll do,’ said Tobermory and smiled to himself behind his paw. ‘Thinks he’s the greatest Womble in the world at the moment, but he’ll soon get that knocked out of him. One way and another.’
    ‘He’s young yet,’ said Great Uncle Bulgaria and for a moment the two wise old Wombles looked at each other and then Great Uncle Bulgaria got out the chess game which he and Tobermory had been playing for years and years and quite soon both of them had forgotten all about Bungo.
    And as for Bungo himself, he was fast asleep with a happy smile on his face, for he was dreaming that he was chasing an enormous black and white Dalmatian clean across Wimbledon Common while all the other Wombles watched him admiringly . . .

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    Chapter 2
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    Orinoco and the Black Umbrella
     
    ‘Good morning,’ said Bungo, putting his nose round the Workshop door.
    ‘You’re late,’ said Tobermory, looking at the shelf which held the clocks and watches. As he had got most of them in working order and wound up they made a busy ticking noise, like dozens of pecking birds.
    ‘I overslept,’ said Bungo.
    He hadn’t got used to being a working Womble yet and in the evenings he was often so tired that he couldn’t keep his eyes open and he would nod off with his head on another Womble’s shoulder, lulled by the steady rumble of voices; for if there is one thing that Wombles are really fond of it’s the sound of their own voices. And there was a great deal to discuss at the moment with Christmas only two months away and after that the planning of the Great Womble Outing. Midsummer’s Eve is the most important night of the year as far as the Wimbledon Wombles are concerned. They have a tremendous party and it takes a great deal of organising. So it just goes to show how tired Bungo must have been to go to sleep while all that was being discussed.
    Perhaps Tobermory understood, for after a quick glance at Bungo he only said, ‘ Tsk , tsk , tsk . Well off you go then, and remember to keep your back paws firmly on the ground.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Bungo.
    ‘Wait and see,’ said Tobermory, and began putting a camera together on his workbench, his paws neatly and carefully picking up each tiny screw, and examining it through a jeweller’s glass which he had fixed into his eye.
    It didn’t take Bungo long to discover what Tobermory had meant, for the moment the main door of the burrow was opened he was nearly blown backwards by the wind. Small dry leaves and dust and tiny scraps of paper whirled past his head and his fur was quite flattened.
    ‘Whoops,’ said Bungo, dragging the door shut behind him and leaning against it. He had never been out in a gale before as a high wind is dangerous to small Wombles and can blow them clean off their paws. Bungo turned his back on it and felt his eyes watering as he worked his way through the bushes, while all the time twigs and leaves were rattling about his head and the trees up above were bending and creaking and throwing their branches about.
    ‘Thought you were never coming,’ said Orinoco, who had made himself a comfortable nest in among the bushes. ‘Well, there’s a lot of work to be done.’
    And there was, for the wind had driven across the streets and gardens of South-west London before it reached the Common and on its journey it had picked up everything in its path. There were newspapers and paper bags, handkerchiefs and hats, scarves and gloves, bus tickets and shopping lists and notes left for milkmen, and a lot more besides, all scudding happily across the grass and through the bushes.
    Orinoco had already found a scarf (red and white stripes), and had wrapped it round and round his neck and then over his straw hat to keep it in place.
    ‘We’ll never tidy up all this,’ said Bungo in dismay.
    ‘Got to try,’ said Orinoco. ‘I’ve made a start.’ And he twitched at the scarf. ‘Now off you go, young Bungo, while I get my breath back.’ And he settled down and