The Tiger's Egg Read Online Free

feathers. In the eight years he had suffered the gray tedium of Pinchbucket House, he could not remember ever hearing a pleasant word from Mrs. Pinchbucket or her husband.
    â€œShe’s . . . she’s my sister,” he said.
    â€œYour . . . sister!” echoed Mrs. Pinchbucket. A sickly smile bisected her face. “Well come in, the two of you, and we’ll get you a drink of . . . pop, or whatever. I hear rumors that you’ve been saving the town in our absence. You must tell us all about it.”
    â€œThank you, but we have to go,” said Miles, with as much politeness as he could muster. “We’re already late,” added Little.
    â€œNonsense!” said Mrs. Pinchbucket. “Fowler, park that wheelbarrow while I show these children ournew establishment. We just opened on Friday,” she said to Miles.
    Fowler Pinchbucket grunted, and grabbed the rough handles of the barrow. He was just as puzzled as Miles, but had long since learned to avoid any delay in carrying out his wife’s instructions. With reluctant curiosity Miles, followed by Little, stepped over the threshold of the Canny Rat.
    If you have ever seen a place decorated by two people with absolutely no taste or talent, who like parting with money about as much as having their legs chewed off by a cannibal, you will have a pretty good picture of the interior of the Canny Rat. The Pinchbuckets had tried to scrub years of greasy dirt from the bile-green walls, on the basis that soap and water is cheaper than paint, but Fowler’s homemade ladder had buckled under his weight before they were finished, leaving a tidemark just below the ceiling. Three bare lightbulbs gave off such a feeble light that it was hard to be sure they were switched on. Mrs. Pinchbucket had splashed out on one tub of paint, a gallon of special-offer pink emulsion, which she had applied to the bar and part of the floor around it until the paint had run out. It made the bar look like a half-melted block of ice cream.
    â€œMake yourselves comfortable,” said Mrs.Pinchbucket, pointing at a straggle of hard stools along the bar, “and I’ll get you both a drink. What would you like?”
    â€œOrange juice will be fine,” said Miles.
    â€œDon’t hold your breath,” said Mrs. Pinchbucket in a chirpy voice.
    â€œWater?” ventured Little.
    â€œTap’s broken,” said Mrs. Pinchbucket. “Two bitter lemons.” This last remark was aimed at the far end of the bar, beyond the reach of the feeble lightbulbs. Miles could just make out the figure of a girl polishing glasses in the gloom.
    â€œTwo bitter what?” asked the girl.
    â€œBitter lemons. Bitter lemons,” snapped Mrs. Pinchbucket. “Behind you on the right, in the glass cabinet.”
    The girl slid into the light and placed two bottles on the bar, and Miles recognized her immediately as Julia from the circus. She had evidently found a new job as quickly as Miles himself had. “Two bitter lemons,” she said in a bored voice.
    â€œWell,” said Mrs. Pinchbucket, settling herself stiffly behind the bar. “How do you like our little pub?”
    â€œIt’s . . . different,” said Miles, looking around. There did not seem to be another customer in theplace. In the corner was a stack of boxes with the words EXPORT ONLY stenciled on them.
    â€œI’m glad you think so,” said Mrs. Pinchbucket. “We get very busy in the evenings, of course. But you must tell me about yourself, and your little . . . sister. Are you still living in a moldy old tub?”
    â€œMy barrel got flattened,” said Miles.
    Little took the straw out of her mouth. “We live with—” she began, but Miles shot his elbow out and sent the two sour drinks flooding across the bar before she could say another word.
    â€œOops!” he said loudly.
    Mrs. Pinchbucket