Jing hugged Tink happily.
“You did it!” she cried. “Everything all right now. Oh, Tink, you’re marvelous.”
The girl was looking at the letter, a dazed happy look in her eyes.
“Then this is your letter,” she exclaimed.
The soldier nodded, grinning.
“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Miss.”
“Then the Captain isn’t married to Maisie?”
“He’d better not be,” the soldier said.
“And he doesn’t have five children?”
The soldier grinned happily.
“He doesn’t have six children!”
The Irish girl crushed the letter to her as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
“Oh!” she cried, “I’ve never been happier in my life.”
She leaned forward and kissed the amazed soldier on the cheek.
“Take that to your Captain,” she laughed.
The soldier rubbed his cheek in embarrassment.
“I couldn’t hardly do that,” he said, “but I’ll explain things so’s he’ll get the general idea.”
He left then and the girl danced back through the room to the rear of the house, singing happily.
Tink and Jing sat on the mantel, swinging their legs over the edge. Tink had his arm around Jing’s waist and they laughed until the tears came to their eyes.
Nastee was standing on the mahogany table, his features twisted in a scowl of bitter disappointment. He stared at them balefully, hands set belligerently on his hips.
“Well, what’s so funny!” he snapped.
“You,” Jing giggled.
Nastee scowled unpleasantly at them and then he slid down the table leg and made for the door, both hands pressed to his temples.
“I think he’s got a hangover,” Tink observed with considerable satisfaction.
That night peace was restored to the pleasant village of Ballycree. Soldiers from the American Camp strolled the streets of the little town and smiled in genuine friendliness at the villagers, who patted them on the back and invited them into their homes to sample their beer and meet their daughters.
A pale, mellow moon cast a lambent glow over the village and countryside and by its friendly light couples could be seen strolling arm in arm through dells and glens in which the tiny town nestled.
One of these couples stopped to rest by an old-fashioned stone well.
Captain James Donavon looked down at the beautiful, dark-haired girl at his side and he sighed in sheer happiness.
“You’ll always love me, won’t you?” he said softly.
“Forever and ever,” the girl answered, smiling.
Tink and Jing were seated on the edge of the well, listening interestedly. Nastee was bathing his fevered brow in the bucket that swung gently over the deep dark well.
Jing sighed and looked at the moon. “Aren’t they a wonderful couple?” she said dreamily.
Tink nodded happily. “It would have been a shame if anything happened to their romance.”
Nastee looked up from the rim of the bucket.
“Remind me never to drink beer again,” he said mournfully. “And,” he added spitefully, “don’t be too surprised if something does happen to the Captain’s beautiful romance.” He grinned wickedly. “I just have a hunch that someone is in for a very unpleasant surprise.”
At that moment the Captain leaned back and his elbow jarred against the well crank. With a rusty creak the ratchet slipped and the swinging bucket plummeted downward into the black depths of the well.
The Captain looked around, slightly surprised.
“Well,” he said, grinning, “no harm done.”
He took the dark-haired girl by the arm and they sauntered slowly away.
Tink and Jing peered over the well’s rim. Faintly they-heard Nastee’s outraged, spluttering shrieks from the depths of the deserted well. They looked at each other and smiled. Then they climbed down to the ground and sauntered away, arm-in-arm.
Tink Fights the Gremlins
First published in Fantastic Adventures, October 1943.
Chapter I
The interior of the small London flat was bright and cheerful. Strong northern light came in the wide, uncurtained windows and fell in regular patterns across the plain furnishings and the dozens of half-finished paintings which were stacked about the floor and hung from every wall of the high-ceilinged room.
A tall, dark-haired man in a painter’s smock stood in the center of the room studying intently an easel on which a half-completed painting of three roses was spread. He held a pipe in one hand and there was a curious, puzzled expression on his face as he studied the painting.
Tink, Jing and Nastee, the three New York leprechauns, were sitting on the edge of the easel, watching him with bright interested eyes.
“I think he’s terribly handsome,” Jing said.
She was sitting between Tink and Nastee, but she had edged over as close to Tink as possible. Nastee’s sour little face was cupped in his hands and his lips were pressed in a thin dissatisfied line.
“You would!” he said disgustedly.
“What’s the matter with you, Nastee?” Tink asked. “You’re even more bitter today than usual.”
“Mind your own business,” Nastee snapped.
Jing giggled. “He’s still mad at you for dumping him into that well in Ireland.”
“Well,” Tink grinned, “it was Saturday night, wasn’t it? He needed a bath anyway and I just saved him the trouble.”
“Very funny,” Nastee muttered sarcastically. “Pardon me if I don’t roll on the floor laughing.”
“You shouldn’t hold grudges like that,” Jing said. “After all, that happened months ago.”
“By the way,” Tink said, looking at Nastee with a sudden suspicion, “where have you been since then? You showed up here only a week ago. And how did you know where to find us?”
Nastee grinned maliciously.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he jeered. “You two may think you’re pretty smart, but you may be singing another tune before long.”
Tink’s face was serious as he glanced at Jing.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” he whispered worriedly. “Nastee sounds like he’s got something up his sleeve.”
“Oh, he’s just talking,” Jing said. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Anyway, he couldn’t cause any harm here.”
“I know,” Tink said thoughtfully, “but that’s just why I’m anxious.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The young painter, with a last worried look at his half-finished painting, crossed the room and opened the door.
A slim, dark-haired girl in the trim uniform of the Ferry Command was standing in the doorway. She smiled happily into the young painter’s incredulous face.
“Ann Masterson!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Still smiling, the girl saluted smartly and straightened her slim, square shoulders. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant Diggles,” she said.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the young painter said dazedly.
He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently.
“What are you doing in that uniform? And how did you know I was a lieutenant?” he asked.
“Oh, Tom,” the girl said excitedly, “I’ve got a thousand things to tell you. But I’m so happy about seeing you I hardly know where to begin.” She grinned into his still incredulous eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”
“Why — why sure,” the young painter said. He stepped aside and the girl walked into the room, glancing quickly about with a pleased little smile on her lips. “Why it’s lovely here,” she said, turning to him. “It’s almost like your studio in New York.”