of desirable rewards from motor cars to thousands of pounds, from holiday bungalows to trips to the Greek Islands. (Mr Bagthorpe was particularly bent on winning this latter, because it had a lot more tone than a trip to the Caribbean.) There were eight tins whose wrappers carried entry forms for this particular prize, and he swiftly removed them all and stowed them in his pocket. The very next batch of tins promised a motor car and also some very attractive runners-up prizes, ranging from stereo equipment to typewriters. These, too, were divested of their wrappers.
All in all Mr Bagthorpe was in the pantry for a full quarter of an hour. He returned to his study a happy man, every pocket stuffed with wrappers and box lids, and hours of enjoyable Slogan Slogging before him. He sorted his pickings into businesslike piles, fetched out a new notebook and prepared a record-keeping system. He made notes of how many bottle tops of certain products he would have to collect and send along with his entries. He wrote the closing date of each Competition in red, and by lunchtime the ground was prepared. All that now remained was the actual solving and Slogan-making – the least part of the thing, it seemed to Mr Bagthorpe, who was not a modest man.
The house was full of Bagthorpes similarly engaged. Rosie was sucking her pencil over a Slogan for After Shave (made difficult by her uncertainty as to what this product was actually supposed to do). In the end she settled for “You may be no saint, but X will make you feel good.” William was writing a letter in not more than five hundred words explaining why he would like a motor caravan, and Tess had already thought of three surefire Slogans for a shampoo, and was now deciding that the best was probably: “You may be no saint, but you will have a halo” (which, given Rosie’s effort, suggested a strong telepathic link between Bagthorpes simultaneously generating ideas).
Jack, meanwhile, was slack and happy in the meadow with his dog. Zero did not really seem to want to sit up and Beg, even when Jack dangled his favourite biscuits above him. The reason Jack wanted him to learn was to increase his standing among the other Bagthorpes. Even now that he could fetch sticks, none of them really thought much of him. It was Mr Bagthorpe who had given him his name. “If there was anything less than Zero, that hound would be it,” he had said. It was not a good name to have to go through life with, and Jack sometimes wondered if it affected Zero, and gave him an inferiority complex. He spent a lot of time trying to build up Zero’s confidence, because he could tell by the way his ears drooped when he was getting sad and undermined.
This morning, for instance, after each unsuccessful attempt by Zero to beg, Jack had hurled a stick and shouted “Fetch!” and each time Zero had brought it back he was patted and praised and given a biscuit.
At present Jack was having a rest and wondering how best to tackle the problem. He felt sure that Zero could sit up and Beg if only he, Jack, found the key to how his mind worked.
He’s got quite thick legs and a very square-shaped sort of bottom, he thought, so there’s no physical reason why he can’t Beg. It must be all in the mind.
There was, of course, one obvious method Jack could use for getting through to Zero. He had been keeping it as a last resort, because the only other occasion he had used it was one of his most painful memories. It was the most embarrassing moment of his life. Jack had been trying to get through to Zero how to fetch sticks, and in the end had himself dropped down on all fours, crawled after the stick and picked it up in his own teeth. Mr Bagthorpe had caught him in the act. It had been terrible. The only thing was, it had worked.
And it could work again now, he thought. In fact, it’s probably the only way.
Unfortunately the thing was not so simple as it seemed. He would need, he realised, an accomplice. Someone would have to hold up a biscuit for Jack to sit up and Beg for. It would, he was convinced, be no use his holding up a biscuit for himself. This would only confuse Zero more than ever.
Jack slumped back into the grass.
That’s it, then, he thought. He knew for a fact that none of his family was going to hold up a biscuit for Jack to Beg for. He also knew that he would never ask them. They were all genii, and he was ordinary. To ask them to hold up biscuits would be to invite the fate of being sub-ordinary. He half shut his eyes and squinted through the long, seeding grass and saw the light running like wires. He heard Zero’s steady panting by his ear, and was content. It was a shock to hear Uncle Parker’s voice.
“Hallo, there. Having a kip?”
Jack shot up and shaded his eyes against the low autumn sun to stare up at his uncle, six foot four above ground level, and looking amused in the friendly way he had. Jack and Uncle Parker were old conspirators. They understood one another.
“Not kipping,” Jack told him. “Just having a bit of a think.”
“Ah.” Uncle Parker sat down himself and pulled a grass to chew.
Jack explained the problem.
“Well,” said Uncle Parker when he had finished, “here’s your third party.”
“You? Would you?”
“No trouble. Nothing much to holding up biscuits. Got some handy?”
Jack indicated the bag containing the remainder.
“There’s just one thing you might do for me,” Uncle Parker said.
“What?”
“Go to the Bingo place with Grandma and Fozzy. I’ll give you a sub. Can’t let that pair loose on their own.”
Jack saw his point. He knew that Grandma was going to cheat, and that when she was found out she would need protecting. Mrs Fosdyke was not the protecting type. She would probably scuttle, like a rat off a sinking ship the minute the police arrived. (Jack, like Mr Bagthorpe, felt sure that the kind of cheating Grandma would go in for would eventually involve the police.)
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll go. Might even win.”
“Could easily,” agreed Uncle Parker. “Pure chance. No skill. No offence.”
“Come on, then,” Jack said. “Let’s start the training. Here.”
He handed up the bag of biscuits. He himself then crouched on all fours beside Zero, who was dozing.
“Hey, Zero!”
Zero opened his eyes and his ears pricked up slightly.
“Now – watch me!”
Zero yawned hugely and moved to a sitting position. He looked dazed.
“Now,” whispered Jack to Uncle Parker, “you say ‘Up!’ and I’ll sit up and Beg. If I do it and he doesn’t, you say ‘Good boy!’ and pat my head, and give me the biscuit.”
Uncle Parker nodded. He delved in the bag and came up with a chocolate digestive which he broke in half.
“Right.”
He held the biscuit aloft halfway between Jack and Zero.
“Up. Sit up. Beg. Good boy – boys, rather.”
Jack accordingly crouched on his legs and held his hands drooping forward in imitation of front paws.
“Good boy!” exclaimed Uncle Parker. He patted Jack on the head and held out the biscuit. Jack opened his mouth and Uncle Parker pushed the half digestive into it. It nearly choked him. He looked sideways to see that Zero was looking distinctly interested. For one thing, his eyes were fixed soulfully on the piece of biscuit still protruding from Jack’s mouth, and for another, he was doing a kind of stamping movement with his front paws alternately, like a racehorse impatient to be loosed.
“Look!” The exclamation came out with a shower of crumbs. “Look at his paws!”
Uncle Parker nodded.
“We’re on the right track. All we’ve got to do now is keep on reinforcing the message. How hungry are you?”
“Not terribly,” Jack told him. “You could break the biscuits