Then, with the traditional gesture for attention, he rapped sharply on the podium with his baton.
All three of the sharp blows landed squarely on Nastee’s head, knocking him flat on his stomach, dazed, breathless and aching all over like a sore tooth.
The sounds of his outraged, wailing shrieks were completely drowned out by the crashing chords of the overture.
Tink looked at Nastee’s sprawled, dazed figure, and he began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed until tears came to his eyes and then he turned weakly to Jing.
“You’re wonderful,” he said. “You knew what would happen to Nastee at the other end of the podium, didn’t you?”
“That’s why I told him not to go down there,” Jing said primly. “Of course I wasn’t sure he’d get hit, but the chance was too good to miss. I felt just a little bit guilty, but I’m sure the lesson will do him good.”
Tink stared at the elfinly beautiful girl in helpless admiration.
“Gee,” he said, “your wonderful.”
Nastee raised his aching head weakly.
“Bah!” he said.
Tink Takes Command
First published in Fantastic Adventures, August 1942.
The sky above Central Park was an azure canopy dotted with the white puffs of vagrant clouds. The air was as intoxicating as rare wine. In short, Nature was in one of her most benign and delightful moods. Everything was glorious.
Tink sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. He was lying in the comfortable cup of a soft green leaf-completely at peace with himself and creation.
Tink’s tranquillity could be traced to circumstances other than the balmy weather. For one thing he was rid of Nastee, his incorrigibly troublesome companion, for a while at least. And that was a distinct relief.
But there was another thing that gladdened Tink’s heart even more than Nastee’s blessed absence. And that was the presence of Jing, the tiny, exquisite leprichaun-girl whom he’d met a few weeks before.
He opened his eyes lazily and looked up at her. She was sitting on a toadstool swinging her legs and humming softly. As always he was struck with the piquant allure of her delicate, gracefully molded features and the slim lines of her body that seemed made for flowing, dancing motion.
She shook her long blonde curls and stretched luxuriously. Then, with a lithe motion, she sprang to her feet and pirouetted brilliantly.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” she cried. “What is?” Tink asked.
“Oh, just everything. The weather, the sky, the clouds, everything.”
“You forgot to mention one other thing that’s wonderful,” Tink said.
“What?”
A chuckle bubbled from Tink.
“The fact that Nastee isn’t around causing trouble is pretty wonderful, I think.”
“Where is he?” Jing asked. “You told me, but I forgot.”
“He got homesick and went back to Ireland for a vacation,” Tink explained. “Maybe he’ll decide to stay there for good, but that’s too much to hope for.” Jing sat down again and frowned. “How did he get to Ireland?” she asked.
“He stowed away on a troop ship. He reached the County Down a few weeks ago. His home village is just a few miles from where the American soldiers have built their camp.”
“That isn’t far from Belfast, is it?” Jing asked. There was a troubled look in her eyes.
Tink noticed the expression. “Not very far,” he answered. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Jing answered. “Maybe I’m just being silly, but something in this morning’s paper has me worried. I didn’t think about it at the time, but now—”
“Now, what?” Tink demanded. “Has it got something to do with Nastee?”
“It might have,” said Jing. “Maybe you’d better look into it. There’s a morning paper over on that park bench. You’d better read the article.”
“All right,” said Tink, “I will.”
He stood up and Jing jumped to the ground beside him, then the two of them skipped across the grass to the park bench. Tink swung himself up by using the braces as a trapeze artist might, but Jing leaped to the seat with one graceful bound.
When Tink swung himself over the edge of the bench Jing had already found the article in the paper. She pointed to it, as Tink reached her side, panting from his exertion.
“There,” she said, “what do you make of that?”
Tink frowned and began reading. The story was datelined BELFAST. It was headed:
(Belfast) Captain James Donavon of the American forces in Ulster, today issued an order confining his men to their barracks for the duration of their stay in Northern Ireland. The village of Ballycree which is the nearest village to the American camp has been ruled “out of bounds” for the American soldiers.
No explanation was given for this drastic action, but reliable observers are of the opinion that it will place a strain on American relations with Ulster. Captain Donavon refused to issue a statement to the Press. This is the first instance of friction between American soldiers and natives of Northern Ireland, all having been peaceful and serene until this time...
Tink read the dispatch twice, and he was scowling worriedly when he looked up at Jing.
“Are you thinking what I am?” asked Jing.
“I’m afraid so,” Tink said despairingly. “Ballycree is Nastee’s home village. I’ll bet anything he’s at the bottom of the trouble that’s brewing there.”
“But how could he be,” Jing protested. “It just doesn’t seem possible that he could cause that much trouble.”
“You don’t know Nastee,” Tink said gloomily.
“But,” Jing said, “what could he do to disrupt everything that way? And why would he want to make the soldiers mad at the people of Ireland?”
“No reason,” Tink said. “But he lives to stir up trouble, and I’ve got an awful suspicion that he’s behind this mess. This is terrible.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Jing.
Tink sat down and put his chin in his hands.
“There’s only one patriotic thing I can do,” he said.
“You mean—”
Tink nodded. “I’ve got to go to Ireland and stop Nastee. He’s getting too big for his britches. I’ll have to leave right away before things get any worse.”
“Will you wait for a troop ship?” Jing asked.
Tink shook his head firmly. “Nope. Haven’t got time.”
“What then?”
“I can get a bomber from Mitchell Field and be in Ireland in twenty-four hours. It’s the only thing to do.”
Jing clapped her hands and pirouetted gaily.
“Oh, won’t that be fun!” she cried. “I’ve never been in a plane.”
Tink looked at her, startled.
“Who said you were coming along?” he demanded.
“I did,” Jing said sweetly.
Tink decided that it was time to put his foot down.
“No,” he said firmly, “you aren’t coming. It — it might be dangerous.”
“I don’t care. I’m coming.”’
Tink put his hands on his hips.
“For the last time, no! You absolutely aren’t coming.”
The huge, American bomber landed smoothly and came to a stop within a hundred feet. When the pilots and radiomen crawled out and dropped to the ground, Tink said:
“Here we are, but I still don’t think you should have come.”
Jing grinned at him. “Maybe I can help you with Nastee. Anyway, I won’t be any trouble.”
The two leprichauns swung down from the plane then and headed for the green, sunshiny Irish countryside — and the village of Ballycree.