Martin Bridge: Blazing Ahead! Read online

  Martin received a hearty round of applause. His dad gave him the thumbs-up.

  “We have two more entertainers tonight,” announced Head Badger Bob. “Next up is Jonathan. Jonathan is going to lead us in a song about —” He checked his clipboard. “— swallowing a fly.”

  Martin’s dad leaned over and spoke quietly. “Jonathan got homesick, remember? His mom came to pick him up an hour ago.”

  The troop nodded sadly.

  “Right,” said Head Badger Bob. “Well, then. Last up is Alex. Alex, I believe you have a story to tell?”

  “I do!” Alex jumped up with a wicked smile.

  Before Alex even started, Martin flashed “S-O-S.” Stuart threw his arms up in the air and mouthed, “Ka-boom.” Clark joined the fun by jabbing relentlessly at the fire with his marshmallow stick until sparks shot up.

  Ignoring their antics, Alex launched into a story about a space alien who was posing as a Junior Badger on a camping trip.

  He went on at length about how the campers went missing, one by one, whenever they ventured into the woods. Even the leaders disappeared. Only puddles remained where they had last been seen. As if they had melted!

  At last, there were only two campers left. And it was getting dark.

  “They made each other promise not to leave the lodge until help arrived,” said Alex solemnly.

  The circle of Badgers leaned forward, but nobody spoke.

  “And to be sure, they shook hands on it,” said Alex. He reached out to shake Martin’s hand.

  Playing along, Martin shook, but Alex didn’t let go.

  “And then do you know what happened?” asked Alex mysteriously.

  Martin gave a small shrug.

  Alex measured out his next words carefully. “One of the campers looked at the other and said … ‘Gotcha!!’”

  Alex pulled away from Martin dramatically. Long strands of chunky slime stretched between their hands.

  Some of the younger Badgers screamed.

  “Good one,” muttered Martin, wiping his hand on his jacket. He slipped Alex a smile.

  The troop gave them both a standing ovation.

  After that, the Badgers went back to roasting marshmallows. Martin had never been so full in all his life. It almost hurt. But he managed to force down three more.

  Now that Alex’s prank was over, Martin could relax.

  Still ...

  It would be fun to get Alex back.

  But how?

  Lost in thought, he reached for another marshmallow.

  The full moon was beaming directly overhead when Head Badger Bob finally announced, “Let’s put this fire to rest.”

  They doused the flames and trekked back to the lodge.

  After changing into his park ranger pajamas, Martin clambered to the top bunk and slid into his sleeping bag. He could feel the bunks shake as Alex climbed in below.

  “Hey, Alex!” Martin called out in the dark. “I’m going to get you back.”

  “Fat chance,” Alex taunted. “I’m the king of pranks. If there was a badge for pranks, I’d get it. And besides, I still have plenty more slime in the fridge.”

  Martin leaned over the rails to look down at Alex. Alex stared back, an impish grin on his moonlit face.

  Martin rolled onto his side and schemed earnestly until he fell asleep. The next morning he woke up with a plan. Martin smiled smugly. All he had to do now was get a little help.

  After an enormous pancake breakfast, everyone was fitted with life jackets, and the troop headed down to the lake for canoe lessons. Alex paired with Stuart, leaving Martin with Clark.

  Perfect!

  Martin climbed into the stern of a canoe, and Clark sat in the bow. Once they got good at paddling together and in the same direction, Martin leaned forward.

  “Hey, Clark,” he whispered. “Want to help me play a trick on Alex?”

  Just then, Alex glided by and splashed them with his paddle before quickly slipping out of range.

  “You bet I do!” exclaimed Clark, shaking the water from his hair. “His campfire suggestions were awful.”

  “Good,” said Martin, lifting his feet out of the puddle on the bottom of the canoe. “I’ve signed us up to help with lunch. It’s part of my plan.”

  Campers earned Junior Helping Hand Badges if they assisted with one of the meals.

  “But we’ll have to leave canoeing early,” said Clark, a note of disappointment in his voice.

  “It’ll be worth it,” said Martin. “Trust me.” He proceeded to whisper his entire plan so there would be no chance of Alex overhearing.

  “Brilliant,” said Clark enthusiastically.

  They paddled around the lake once more and then returned to the dock.

  “We’re going to help with lunch,” said Martin to his dad as he helped them bail out the water.

  After they tended to the canoe, Martin traipsed back to the lodge with all-too-familiar squishy footsteps. Only this time, both shoes were squelching. So were Clark’s.

  “Double cripes,” Martin muttered.

  They changed into dry shoes, then beelined it to the kitchen. Head Badger Bob stood in front of a huge pot of water, dumping all the hot dogs in at once.

  “Reporting for duty,” said Martin, cautiously eyeing the overfilled pot. “What would you like us to do?”

  “You can haul out the dishes and cutlery,” ordered Head Badger Bob.

  “What about ketchup and relish?” asked Martin helpfully. “Can we set them out, too?”

  Head Badger Bob waved away the billowing steam with his tongs. Then the pot began to boil over.

  “Sure,” he agreed quickly, distracted by the ensuing mess.

  “Okay,” Martin whispered to Clark. “We haven’t got much time. You grab the dishes. I’ll go find Alex’s jar of relish and make sure it ends up at our table.”

  “And Alex will spread it on his hot dog!” exclaimed Clark gleefully, repeating what Martin had told him in the canoe.

  Martin beamed. “Now, fall out,” he said, Head Badger Bob–style.

  Martin made his way to the fridge and yanked open the door.

  Whoa! It was jam-packed.

  He began to pull out the items one by one.

  Milk. Apple juice. Lettuce. Carrots. Broccoli. Broccoli? It was untouched. Must have been Martin’s mom who sent it. Martin shoved the broccoli way to the back. Ham. Cheese. More milk. Chocolate chips. He took a big handful. Ketchup. Mustard ...

  But no relish!

  Where could it be?! Martin began to panic. He quickly pulled out everything else holus-bolus.

  “Three short bursts, three long, three short!!” shouted Clark.

  Martin wheeled around to see his dad striding toward him. Martin glanced at the pile of groceries at his feet.

  “What are you doing, Sport?” asked his dad. There was an edge to his voice.

  “Helping with lunch,” said Martin meekly.

  “More like helping yourself to lunch,” said his dad. Then he added, “Where’s the chocolate?”

  Martin wiped his mouth guiltily, then rooted around and pulled out the bag of chocolate chips. His dad took a handful.

  “Why don’t you go help Clark?”

  “But —”

  “Go on,” insisted his dad.

  Martin watched helplessly as his dad took another handful, then started to repack the food. It would have felt so good to see Alex eat his own nasty relish! If only —

  “Still here?” asked his dad coolly, turning around.

  Martin sagged in defeat and joined an equally disappointed Clark in the mess hall.

  They were setting out the last stacks of plates when the troop began to tumble through the doors.

 
; Head Badger Bob bustled in from the kitchen carrying two large trays.

  “Attention, men!” he announced. “I’ve already dressed the hot dogs. These ones have ketchup only.” He held up a tray. “And these ones have the works.” He held up a second tray.

  “That reminds me,” said Alex, who stood nearby. He dashed up behind Head Badger Bob and snatched a hot dog from the tray with the works before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Head Badger Bob didn’t notice. He set the trays on the food table beside the bowls of salad and potato chips and the stacks of plates.

  “Start the line here.” He pointed. “And make sure you fill up. It’s a long ride home.”

  Badgers rushed to the table. Everyone talked at once, but the mess hall gradually grew quiet as the troop filled their plates and sat down.

  Clark handed Martin a hot dog when they got to the trays.

  “Here you go,” he said. “The works.”

  Martin reached for it just as Alex burst into the mess hall.

  “Has anybody seen my slime?!” he called frantically. “I had it in a relish jar!”

  The line came to a halt. Those seated stopped eating, their hot dogs frozen in midair.

  Head Badger Bob cleared his throat. “Where was the jar?” he asked. For once, his voice wasn’t booming.

  “In the fridge door,” said Alex.

  Head Badger Bob let out a small gasp.

  The mess hall full of Badgers stared in growing alarm at Head Badger Bob, then at the tray with the works, then at Alex and the half-eaten hot dog in his hand.

  Alex gulped.

  “The works?” repeated Martin to a jubilant Clark.

  “I’ll pass,” he said with relish.

  Lightning Bolts

  Martin was watching his favorite show, Zip Rideout: Space Cadet, when he saw smoke wafting outside the window, then heard shouting.

  Martin was not alarmed. He merely turned up the volume, determined to watch Zip to the very end.

  “Martin,” interrupted his mom from the doorway. “Your dad’s calling you.”

  “Now?” asked Martin, sinking farther into the sofa.

  “Yes, now,” said his mom in her no-fooling-around voice. “Please go see what he wants.” She turned on her heel.

  “I know what he wants,” muttered Martin. He sighed as he clicked off his show, then stared at the blank screen, wishing he were at Alex’s or Stuart’s house. He was sure his best friends would be watching their space hero without any interruptions.

  “Martin!” called his dad from outside the window as he tapped the glass with his ring finger.

  “Okay, okay,” said Martin with resignation. He trundled outside and joined his dad.

  There in the middle of the yard sat their dilapidated lawn mower.

  Martin hated that lawn mower more than anything.

  More than running out of Zip Rideout Space Flakes at breakfast.

  More than his school bus driver’s cranky-pants comments.

  Even more than his mom’s spring cleaning regimen.

  “You know the drill,” said Martin’s dad. “Grab hold of Laverne for me.”

  Martin’s dad had named the lawn mower Laverne after an old aunt of his. Aunt Laverne only did things when she wanted to. Her voice sounded all rusty. And she had blue hair the color of lawn mower smoke.

  Even worse, Aunt Laverne always seemed to be wagging her knobby finger at Martin whenever she came for a visit.

  Aunt Laverne was not his favorite family member.

  Martin steadied the lawn mower by grasping the handlebar while his dad yanked the pull-cord again and again. Martin had to hold firm because the lawn mower had lost its fourth wheel some time ago.

  Probably before I was born, thought Martin.

  The lawn mower sputtered and hiccupped more smoke. Ka-fump-fump-fump. Ka-fump-fump-fump. But it refused to start.

  “Wheel Laverne onto the driveway,” said Martin’s dad enthusiastically, “so we can have a better look.”

  Frowning, Martin dragged the lawn mower across the partially cut grass while his dad scooted into the garage. Out came the toolbox.

  Martin groaned.

  “Can I go in now, Dad?” he asked, dumping the lawn mower onto the pavement. “Zip’s on.”

  “Zip’s always on,” said his dad, flipping the lawn mower onto its side. “And besides, Sport, I need your help with the tools. Hand me the crescent wrench, please.”

  Martin sighed and shuffled over to the toolbox. He flipped open the lid. Inside was an assorted mess of tools.

  Wrenches, metal files, screwdrivers.

  Ratchets, hammers, staple gun.

  Martin dug around until he spotted the two-fingered claw with the twirling spool. It had dents from when Martin had used it to nail up his “Keep Out” tree fort sign. Martin remembered how his dad had bolted across the lawn and delivered his very first lecture on Tools and Their Use and Abuse.

  “Here, Dad,” said Martin, handing the wrench to him handle first, the way he’d been taught. Then he added, “I was watching the one where Zip discovers a system of dwarf stars.”

  “Dwarf stars. Haven’t you already seen that episode?” asked his dad, pulling off the carburetor.

  “Not lately,” grumbled Martin.

  “Hand me the needle-nose pliers, Sport,” said his dad, a smudge of grease on his cheek. He was fiddling with the spark plug.

  Martin rooted around for the tool that looked like the beak of a pterodactyl. He had used the pliers once to punch air holes into the lid of a jam jar for his butterfly collection. That, too, was a no-no according to his dad and had resulted in another Use and Abuse lecture.

  Martin tried a new tack.

  “Didn’t you have a favorite superhero when you were a kid?” he asked grumpily, handing his dad the pliers.

  “I sure did,” came his dad’s surprise response. “Mine was a comic book hero named Volt Thundercloud. He could shoot electricity from his fingertips. He was unstoppable.”

  “Volt Thundercloud,” repeated Martin, intrigued. For a moment, he forgot his annoyance over missing his show. “What did Volt look like?”

  “He wore an all-black disguise. Black cape. Black mask. Oh, and lightning bolts that blazed up and down his arms.” Martin’s dad paused. “I haven’t thought about him in years.”

  “Lightning bolts?” repeated Martin. “And did Volt fight evil, too?”

  “You bet,” said Martin’s dad. “Volt was very resourceful. He would get out of danger by using ordinary things in ingenious ways. And there was always a terrific section in the comic called ‘Did you know,’ where Volt would teach us about tools and gadgets and how to fix things.”

  “Like lawn mowers?” said Martin dryly.

  “Very funny, Sport,” said Martin’s dad, turning back to the lawn mower. “We all wanted to be like Volt. Pass me the screwdriver, please.”

  “Which type, Dad? Cross or slot head?”

  “Phillips.” His dad stood and smiled. This was a test.

  Martin had to think a minute, and then he remembered. Phillips screwdrivers had cross heads. And they were not to be used to mix paint. His dad had caught Martin doing that once when he was working on one of his rockets. Martin dug out the Phillips, its handle still stained with flecks of fireball red.

  The heat of the afternoon sun was making the back of Martin’s neck sweat.

  “Why don’t we just buy a new lawn mower?” he complained while tugging at his sticky shirt. “This thing never works.”

  “Oh, we can’t give up on Laverne that easily,” said Martin’s dad. “As Volt Thundercloud would say, all she needs is some tweaking now and then.”

  He flipped the lawn mower onto its three wheels. Martin automat
ically clutched the handlebar as his dad yanked the pull-cord. The lawn mower wheezed to an unconvincing start. Ka-fum-fum-fum-fum …

  “See?” said his dad jovially, waving off the cloud of blue smoke while Martin doubled over gasping for air. It was worse than choking on Aunt Laverne’s lavender perfume.

  “How are my boys doing?” called Martin’s mom as she came out of the house, screen door snapping behind her.

  She handed them each a glass of lemonade. They gathered around the shimmying lawn mower, Martin’s dad beaming in triumph.

  But that proved to be too much attention for the lawn mower. As if for spite, it sputtered, then died.

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Martin took a loud slurp.

  “Can I go in now?” he asked, crunching down on an ice cube. Perhaps there was still time to catch the tail end of his show.

  He looked imploringly at his mom, who nodded slightly, then whispered something to his dad.

  “Sure, Sport,” said Martin’s dad, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I guess I can handle Laverne from here.”

  Without waiting for his dad to finish, Martin dashed inside, flopped onto the sofa and clicked on his show.

  Too late. The end credits were already rolling up the screen.

  Cripes!

  The next afternoon, exactly the same thing happened, just as Zip’s rocket blasted across the Milky Way. The devious lawn mower coughed up blue smoke and refused to continue, followed by the predictable tapping on the window.

  “Pass me the crescent wrench, Sport,” said his dad, who stooped over the upturned lawn mower while Martin fumed. All around, the air buzzed with sounds of neighbors cutting their lawns in lickety-split time.

  Martin’s mom came out with two more glasses of lemonade, then snapped a photograph of the two of them working in the driveway. Martin refused to uncross his arms for the picture. And he intensified his scowl.