Tantams was a wooden horse bought from a vintage fair for sixpence. His black mane was very worn and one of his legs had been twice mended, but his eyes were still bright with kindness, and he had a very good heart.
“Dustman! Dustman!” yelled Tom Toby, stumping along with his paws in his pockets white Tantams pulled the cart. “Whoa! You!” miaowed Tom Toby harshly. That’s just like old Toby, Tantams thought to himself. I would have stopped, anyhow. Don’t we always stop at No. 16? It was true. Every Tuesday, when he started out on his rounds, Tom Toby always stopped first at No. 16. Now, as always, he cocked his check cap a little on one side, gave a hasty comb to his whiskers and looked expectantly towards the side door.
In the basement of No. 16 lived the only cat who got more than a surly growl from grouchy Tom Toby. This was Mrs. Maisie, a plump, tabby, widow-cat: housekeeper to the old Dowager Cat at No. 16. Mrs. Maisie liked company. Tom Toby was very partial to milk pudding. And, as friendly Mrs. Maisie was glad to offer a saucer of pudding in exchange for a little chat, the two had struck up a kind of friendship. In an unguarded moment, Mrs. Maisie had even told Tom Toby her “secret.” Up in the attic, unknown to her mistress, Mrs. Maisie kept her three kittens, Jill, Jacqueline and Little Giles.
In the basement of No. 16 lived the only cat who got more than a surly growl from grouchy Tom Toby. This was Mrs. Maisie, a plump, tabby, widow-cat: housekeeper to the old Dowager Cat at No. 16. Mrs. Maisie liked company. Tom Toby was very partial to milk pudding. And, as friendly Mrs. Maisie was glad to offer a saucer of pudding in exchange for a little chat, the two had struck up a kind of friendship. In an unguarded moment, Mrs. Maisie had even told Tom Toby her “secret.” Up in the attic, unknown to her mistress, Mrs. Maisie kept her three kittens, Jill, Jacqueline and Little Giles.
As a rule, the back door opened as soon as the rumble of the rickety dustcart ceased. This morning, even though Tom Toby coughed accusingly, and loyal Tantams obligingly shook his head to jingle his harness, it remained shut. “Strange!” muttered Tom Toby. For a moment longer he stared hard at the door. Then his offended green eyes swept over the rest of the house. Suddenly, he stiffened – with every bristle aquiver. Leaning out from the railings was a board which said in very large letters:
For a little while Tom Toby just stared and stared, hardly able to believe his eyes. Besides, his tummy felt funny - disappointed of its warm, creamy, milk pudding. "Just like a she-cat," he grumbled to himself at last, "to go off without telling an honest Tom as regards her h'intentions." Still, he might as well empty the dustbin, he supposed.
With a clang he lifted the lid. "Gr-owl! Nothing much in that! Trust the old Dowager not to throw away anything worth having." Grumbling and growling to himself, Tom Toby pawed over kipper bones, tea leaves and cinders. Then suddenly, under some screwed-up paper, he saw it. A curiously decorated leather bag! Holding the bag between his paws, Tom Toby looked at it closely. It was a good bag, made of real leather. Now what could be in it?
With a little click, the clasp came undone. Breathing hard, greedy eyes gleaming, Tom Toby stretched his thin neck and peered into the bag. The next second: “Puff!” A great cloud of golden-yellow dust rose high in the air, making him stagger back, coughing and sneezing.
Up and up went the dust, swirling like gold mist in the morning sunlight. For a moment, it hovered before the first-floor window. Then a playful little breeze took it and tossed it up like a gay chiffon scarf. But with screwed-up eyes, and great big sneezes nearly shaking him off his feet, Tom Toby was too busy trying to find his grubby hankie to notice. He didn't see the golden dust cloud hover before the open attic window. He didn't hear the series of three atishoos that echoed his own. The yellow dust had reached the three little noses of Jill, Jacqueline and Giles, who were hanging out over the window sill. Eyes screwed up tight, tiny paws waving, they sneezed and sneezed. Then:
Bump! Wallop! Crash!
Picking themselves up, the kittens explain their mother left with the removal van. Crying and wailing they begged Tom Toby to help them.
Thinking only of the possible reward he might get from a grateful Mrs. Maisie, the surly cat agreed, and packed them in to the back of the dust-cart. And though nobody noticed it, the cloud of golden dust swirled high in the air above them, and because of it, a series of strange adventures began...
A magical tale beautifully illustrated by Helen Haywood.
Tom Toby by Isobel St. Vincent Published in 1949. Hardback book with dust jacket. Please follow this link if you would like further details.
Helen R Haywood is a little known artist of the mid-twentieth century. Primarily, a writer and illustrator of children’s books she created a series of books based on the character Peter Tiggywig and friends. Other works included Master Mouse, Animal Playtime and Animal Worktime, which appeared in the Look with Mother series, and Aesop's Fables (Wiki). The Helen Haywood Christmas Book, The Discontented Pool, Dawdles Duckling, and Patsy Mouse.
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