The Tick-Tock Man Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Read More from the Gadgets and Gears Series

  Middle Grade Mania!

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Text copyright © 2016 by Kersten Hamilton

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by James Hamilton

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  The illustrations were executed digitally.

  Frame art © by iStock/toriru

  Hand-lettering by Leah Palmer Preiss

  Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Hamilton, K. R. (Kersten R.) author. | Hamilton, James, illustrator.

  Title: The Tick-Tock Man / Kersten Hamilton ; with illustrations by James Hamilton.

  Description: Boston : Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2015] | Series: Gadgets and gears ; book 3 | Summary: Wally the boy scientist and his sidekick Noodles the dachshund help a pickpocket named Dobbin who works for the mysterious London criminal, the Tick-Tock Man.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015034870 | ISBN 9780544433007 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Dachshunds—Fiction.| Dogs—Fiction. | Scientists—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | Science fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / Dogs. | JUVENILE FICTION / Robots. | JUVENILE FICTION / Science & Technology. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.H1824 Ti 2015 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015034870

  eISBN 978-0-544-43357-1

  v1.0616

  This book is for Stormageddon.

  —K.H.

  T ick-tock.

  The sound was unsettling, and when you are with a Kennewickett, anything unsettling could spell disaster.

  My name is Noodles. It is my duty to keep Walter Kennewickett, boy genius and scientist in training, as far from disasters as possible. It is my privilege as his best friend to accompany him everywhere he goes.

  Which is why I found myself on a dark street corner in London, trying to track the source of the mysterious sound.

  London was aglow with the process of electrification and hummed with activity even at night. Cable cars mixed with horse-drawn cabs and carts, and many of the thousand lamps that lit the streets had been converted from gas to electricity.

  But Wally wasn’t interested in well-lit streets. The dim gaslight above was perfect for his purposes.

  Tick-tock.

  I could sense approaching danger, but I could not tell from which direction it would arrive. The sound was bouncing off bricks, glass, and cobblestones.

  “What was that, Noodles?” Wally asked, lowering the handheld camera he had been adjusting.

  Walter Kennewickett is a very observant boy.

  “Probably a rat,” his aunt Rhodope said. “London crawls with them after dark.”

  Miss Rhodope Pickering is the youngest of Calypso Kennewickett’s sisters. The fact that Rhodope is an eccentric allows her to fly kites in the park while other people her age attend university.

  The fact that she is a sought-after photographic artist allows her to keep comfortable rooms in Charing Cross. The Pickerings are an artistic family. My current conundrum was the result of Wally’s mother, Calypso, mentioning that he might have inherited an aptitude for art.

  An “aptitude” is the natural ability to master a skill.

  There were certainly many aptitudes Wally had inherited from his prodigious parents. His attempts at art, however, were dismal—until his father, Oliver, pointed out that the correct term for fireworks is “pyrotechnics,” which means “art made from fire.”

  Generations of Kennewicketts have excelled at blowing things up. Wally is currently creating a line of pyrotechnics you might carry in your pocket and enjoy on any street corner.

  Before we traveled to London to participate in the Electromobile Road Rally, Miss Rhodope had written to him, requesting that he use his experience with explosives to create a faster flash powder for use in photography. She’d promised to arrange a breakfast with her friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle if he did. Walter Kennewickett is a fan of Sir Arthur’s books and enjoys matching wits with his fictional detective Sherlock Holmes.

  Wally had not only produced the powder for his aunt, he had devised a hat to hold the flash device, and a trigger cable to attach his handheld camera to it. We were preparing to photograph the participants in the Electromobile Rally, which would be coming down the road at any minute, followed by a small parade of Calypso Kennewickett’s fans. Calypso was the only woman among the twelve participants in the three-country rally, which was a contest of speed, design, and dependability. Since Oliver and Calypso had worked together on every aspect of their elegant electrical carriage, the Zephyr, they were taking turns driving.

  The Kennewicketts had won the first leg of the rally handily, arriving at Trafalgar Square two days ago to be greeted by cheering crowds. The electromobile in last place had not arrived until just after sunset today.

  The crowds had cheerfully gathered again. Drivers had signed autographs and posed for pictures for the press. Now they were proceeding to the docks at the Embankment, where ships had been chartered to carry them across the channel. The second leg of the rally was to be in France.

  The Kennewicketts had requested that this small street be kept free of crowds to allow Rhodope to test her new technique for photographing in the dark. When Kennewicketts ask a small favor, people tend to cooperate. They are world-famous scientists, after all.

  “Attachment test,” Wally said. “In three, two, one—”

  The camera clicked and fire flashed, and someone uttered a terrible cry. I whirled as a tatterdemalion tumbled out of a dark doorway. A “tatterdemalion” is a person dressed in rags and tatters.

  This old man’s frock coat was so faded, it appeared gray in the lamplight, in contrast with his shock of wild white hair. His angular form and antique attire gave the impression that he had just fallen out of the pages of a novel by Mr. Charles Dickens. The poor creature held his hands before his face, as if he were afraid of more flashes. He must have been looking directly at Wally when the powerful powder ignited.

  He stumbled, and Wally leaped to his assistance. As Rhodope and I followed Wally across the street, I realized that we had discovered the source of the unsettling sound. The man himself was ticking.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Wally said, helping him toward a low windowsill where he could sit. “If I had known you were near, I would have called out a warning!”

  “You’ve blinded me!” the stranger said in a strangled voice.

  “It will pass presently,” Rhodope reassured him. “And I’ll summon a cab to carry you home.”

  “No, no, just let me sit,” he said, still rubbing his eyes. “I’ll fumble my way. It ain’t far.�
�

  “I’ll lead you there myself, sir,” Wally offered. “If you’d only wait until the rally has passed!”

  I shook my ears, thinking my instincts must have gone awry, but no—the ticking was definitely coming from the feeble old man. At any rate, it was soon drowned out by the approaching parade.

  “They’re coming!” Rhodope cried. “We’ll have to photograph them from this side of the street. Get ready, Walter!” Wally quickly reloaded the flash powder.

  The first vehicle to appear was a topedo-shaped affair driven by Camille Jenatzy, nicknamed Le Diable Rouge, “the Red Devil,” because of his unruly red beard. I felt a comparison to an annoyed Airedale might be more befitting.

  Click-flash!

  Jenatzy did not look pleased to have his photograph taken. He had set a speed record of sixty-two miles per hour in a similarly shaped electric automobile just four years ago. Last year, his record had fallen to a carriage with an internal combustion engine. Word was Jenatzy had intended to take the record back on the England leg, but the Kennewicketts captured it instead.

  Rhodope poured a measured amount of powder into the contraption on Wally’s head after each photograph was taken, then stepped back and shaded her eyes from the flash.

  The Kennewicketts were twelfth in line.

  Rhodope raised her own camera, and Wally detached his flash. The Zephyr had no batteries or Voltage Vats. It was powered by Nikola Tesla’s recent invention that drew electric power directly from the aether, a mysterious medium he believes to exist in the spaces between the solid matter of the universe. I had listened attentively to his explanations, but I still could not quite comprehend the concept or the contraption. An unexpected consequence of this type of power was the generation of radiant matter, better known as Saint Elmo’s fire.

  Cold blue flames played over the Zephyr’s frame. Moths drawn to the light flitted through the energy field, and their wings lit with radiant matter, which didn’t harm them in the least. They spun like frenzied fairies around the fantastic machine. It completely spoiled the effect. I felt that people who viewed the photos should be admiring the Kennewicketts, not some bedazzling bugs.

  The Kennewicketts had requested the last place in line to allow Rhodope time to capture the phenomenon on film. Gizmo, the family’s mechanical assistant, had asked for a photograph to share with the other automatons who had stayed home with her to staff the Kennewicketts’ Automated Inn. They were now all powered by the same device that caused the Zephyr to glow, and free from Voltage Vats and charging stations forever. Fortunately, the effect that lit the Zephyr seemed to apply only when very large amounts of energy were drawn from the aether. Radiant automatons would no doubt have unsettled some of the Inn’s guests.

  “Ascot, Walter!” Calypso called as the Zephyr rolled to a stop.

  I growled as one particularly persistent moth fluttered in front of the camera.

  “Yes, Mother.” Wally straightened his tie as he stepped forward. Walter Kennewickett is always impeccably dressed. Calypso feels that a tidy appearance is a sign of a tidy mind.

  I kept my eyes on the moths. I was quite sure Calypso would not approve of an insect obscuring Walter’s face in the family photo.

  Wally turned to pose by the Zephyr’s door. At that moment a moth made the mistake of flitting toward the fender. I leaped, and snapped my jaws about it. I did not swallow it, of course. Well-bred dachshunds do not ingest insects.

  “Nicely done, Noodles,” Oliver said, surreptitiously checking his own tie before smiling for the camera.

  “No manufacture of pyrotechnics while we are gone, son,” he went on, turning to Wally. “Listen to your aunt Rhodope.”

  “Certainly, Father.”

  The wiggling inside my mouth was becoming unbearable. I tried to distract myself by spinning in place.

  Finally, Rhodope lowered her camera and I heard Calypso shift the Zephyr into gear.

  “Spit it out, Noodles,” she said. “And take care of Walter for us.”

  I ejected the insect onto the pavement and attempted to regain my dignity as it crawled away.

  “Get a picture of the Union with the flash, Walter!” Rhodope cried as the Zephyr rolled on. She meant the members of the International Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies who were marching behind the Zephyr.

  “Suffrage” is the right to vote in political elections. Calypso was a founding member of the organization. She felt that it was ridiculous that women who were doctors, journalists, artists, or inventors extraordinaire could not cast a ballot. Fire flashed, and the Sisters of Suffrage—with their shoulder sashes that read “Equal Rights for Women!” and their “Calypso Kennewickett” banners—were captured on film.

  Rhodope cheered as the Sisters passed, followed by two constables who appeared to be keeping an eye on them.

  A “constable” is a British police officer.

  “Come on, Walter,” Rhodope said. “Let’s see our new friend home.”

  Wally turned to retrieve the tattered man, but the fellow was nowhere to be found.

  “The dazzle must have worn off,” Rhodope said. “He’s found his own way. Let’s follow the parade instead!”

  We marched along with the constables to the brilliantly electrified Embankment. The atmosphere was festive, as if a circus had spilled into the September night. Street vendors and beggars both were taking advantage of the opportunities offered.

  Onlookers cheered for each of the electromobiles as they drove up the ramp to the ship that was to carry them across the Channel. The cheering was loudest for the Zephyr, of course. The Sisters of Suffrage saw to that.

  “You are a Kennewickett yourself, if I’m not mistaken,” the younger of the two constables said to Wally as the ship slipped downriver. The man was redheaded, round-faced, and had very merry blue eyes. I could tell by the tap of his tongue each time it encountered an r that he was from Scotland. “Why didn’t you go with your parents, laddie?”

  “My aunt has arranged a breakfast with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle tomorrow, sir.” Wally flushed. “I’m a tremendous fan of his fictional detective!”

  “Sherlock Holmes, is it? I’m a fan myself. This is your aunt?” He tipped his hat to Rhodope. “Everyone knows Miss Rhodope Pickering. Artemis Arbuckle, at your service, ma’am. Is Sir Arthur a friend of yours, then?” he asked, squatting to scratch my ear.

  “I photographed a séance for the Society for Psychical Research,” Rhodope replied. “Sir Arthur is a member, and was kind enough to purchase several of my photographic prints.”

  I presented my other ear to the officer. I was sure that Sir Arthur’s fascination with flying machines had something to do with his agreeing to meet with Rhodope, Wally, and me. I expected to be asked to demonstrate the dachshund wings that had recently allowed Wally to save the world.

  “When you’re dining with the gent,” said Constable Arbuckle, standing again, “could you ask him to be a bit kinder to the Yard?”

  He meant Scotland Yard, of course, the headquarters of the London police force. The dauntless consulting detective in Sir Arthur’s books was constantly making a fool of a fictional inspector who worked there.

  Before Rhodope could answer, a woman in a suffrage sash rushed up, almost stepping on me in her haste.

  “Sylvia’s been arrested!” she cried.

  “Arrested?” Officer Arbuckle asked. “For what?”

  The woman pointed at her suffrage sash.

  “Ah. Causing a commotion, was she?” The officer smiled.

  Rhodope’s chin rose. “Don’t you have rounds to make, sir?” she asked. The constable blushed, tipped his hat to the ladies, and walked away.

  I was sorry to see my new acquaintance go. A constable is not a bad thing to have around when you are responsible for the safety of a Kennewickett.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea, Walter,” Rhodope said when he was gone. “It’s just that the battle for equality can become quite exciting.” She considered us thoughtfully. “I’m n
ot sure Calypso would approve of me dragging you two to the police station, and time is of the essence. Sylvia is supposed to speak at a meeting tonight!”

  “We could simply buy some fish and chips while we wait for you here,” Wally suggested. I wagged my tail in agreement. A bite of fish might erase the unpleasant memory of moth legs tickling my tongue.

  “Excellent! And if I am delayed?”

  “We’ll find our own way home,” Wally assured her. “It’s just a few blocks, and Noodles never gets lost. He navigates by nose.”

  That was true. Neither the lingering scent of flash powder nor the scent of muck and mud now seeping up from the river Thames could confuse me; after we’d left Rhodope’s flat we had passed a pastry shop, turned right at a teashop that smelled of jasmine and orchids, and made a left by a butcher’s, where they were making sausages. To backtrack from the Embankment to the square, we would simply retrace the route of the parade.

  “All right,” Rhodope said. “Meet me by the bookseller’s. If I’m not back in an hour, then go directly home.”

  After his aunt rushed off with the suffragette, Wally purchased a paper cone full of fish and crisp potatoes from a vendor, and we shared them as we wandered down the Embankment.

  We’d gone perhaps a block when we found ourselves observing a street performance. A massive man in silk sultan’s robes and a tall turban bowed to the crowd. He slowly pulled a large kerchief from his sleeve and laid it on the paving stones, then produced a plate from inside his robes. I licked a bit of chip from my chops. I have an instinctual interest in plates. They often arrive with things such as sausages or bacon on them.

  The giant spun the plate in the air and twirled like a dervish beneath it, his robes flaring. When he faced us again, a little girl of perhaps six had appeared as if by magic at his feet.

  The child climbed onto the plate, and the giant raised it above his head. Before I could process her perilous plight, she upended into a handstand. This time the crowd not only clapped, they tossed coins onto the kerchief.