The Brave Little Toaster

years.”

“Two years, ten months, and three days, to be exact,” said the radio/alarm.

“Then there’s nothing else for us to do but to find the master ourselves.”

The other four appliances looked at the toaster in mute amazement.

“It isn’t unheard of,” the toaster insisted. “Don’t you remember—only last week there was a story that the radio was telling us, about a dear little fox terrier who’d been accidentally left behind, like us, at a summer cottage. What was his name?”

“Grover,” said the radio. “We heard it on the Early Morning Roundup.”

“Right. And Grover found his way to his master, hundreds of miles away in a city somewhere in Canada.”

“Winnipeg, as I recall,” said the radio.

“Right. And to get there he had to cross swamps and mountains and face all sorts of dangers, but he finally did find his way. So, if one silly dog can do all that, think what five sensible appliances, working together, should be able to accomplish.”

“Dogs have legs,” the blanket objected.

“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket,” the toaster replied in a bantering way.

It should have known better. The blanket, who didn’t have much of a sense of humor and whose feelings were therefore easily hurt, began to whimper and complain that it was time for it to go to bed. Nothing would serve, finally, but that the toaster should make a formal apology, which it did.

“Besides,” said the blanket, mollified, “dogs have noses. That’s how they find their way.”

“As to that,” said the old Hoover, “I’d like to see the nose that functions better than mine.” And to demonstrate its capabilities it turned itself on and gave a deep, rumbling snuffle up and down the rug.

“Splendid!” declared the toaster. “The vacuum shall be our nose—and our legs as well.”

The Hoover turned itself off and said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I meant to say our wheels. Wheels, as I’m sure everyone knows by now, are really more efficient than legs.”

“What about the rest of us,” the blanket demanded, “who don’t have wheels or legs? What shall we do? I can’t crawl all the way to wherever it is, and if I tried to, I’d soon be shredded to rags.”

The blanket was certainly in a fretful state, but the toaster was a born diplomat, answering every objection in a tone of sweet, unswervable logic.

“You’re entirely right; and the radio and I would be in an even sorrier state if we tired to travel such a distance on our own. But that isn’t necessary. Because we’ll borrow some wheels…”

The tensor lamp lighted up. “And build a kind of carriage!”

“And ride all the way there,” said the radio, “in comfort and luxury.” It sounded, at such moments, exactly like the announcer in an advertisement.

“Well, I’m not sure,” said the blanket. “I might be able to do that.”

“The question is,” said the toaster, turning to the Hoover, “will you be able to?”

Deep in its motor the vacuum cleaner rumbled a rumble of quiet confidence.

It was not as easy a matter as the toaster had supposed to find a serviceable set of wheels. Those he’d had in mind at first belonged to the lawnmower out in the lean-to shed, but the task of disconnecting them from the mower’s heavy blades was beyond the appliances’ limited know-how. So, unless the Hoover were willing to cut a swatch of lawn everywhere it went, which it wasn’t, the lawnmower’s sturdy rubber wheels had to be put out of mind.

The blanket, who was now full of the spirit of adventure, suggested that the bed in the sleeping loft might be used, since it had four castor-type wheels. However, the weight and unwieldiness of the bed were such as to rule out that notion as well. Even on a level road the Hoover would not have had the strength to draw such a load—much less across raw wilderness!

And that seemed to be that. There were no other wheels to be found anywhere about the cottage, unless one counted a tiny knife-sharpener that worked by being rolled along the counter top. The toaster racked its brains trying to turn the knife-sharpener to account, but what kind of carriage can you build with a single wheel that is one and a half inches in diameter?

Then, one Friday, as the Hoover was doing its chores, the idea the toaster had been waiting for finally arrived. The Hoover, as usual, had been grumbling about the old metal office chair that stood in front of the master’s desk. No amount of nudging and bumping would ever dislodge its tubular legs from where they bore down on the rug. As the vacuum became more and more fussed, the toaster realized that the chair would have moved very easily… if it had still possessed its original wheels!

It took the five appliances the better part of an afternoon to jack up the bed in the sleeping loft and remove the castors. But it was no trouble at all to put them on the chair. They slipped right into the tubular legs as though they’d been made for it. Interchangeable parts are such a blessing.

And there it was, their carriage, ready to roll. There was quite enough room on the padded seat for all four riders, and being so high it gave them a good view besides. They spent the rest of the day delightedly driving back and forth between the cottage’s overgrown flower beds and down the gravel drive to the mailbox. There, however, they had to stop, for that was as far as the Hoover could get, using every extension cord in the cottage.

“If only,” said the radio with a longing sigh, “I still had my old batteries…”

“Batteries?” inquired the toaster. “I didn’t know you had batteries.”

“It was before you joined us,” said the radio sadly. “When I was new. After my first batteries corroded, the master didn’t see fit to replace them. What need had I for batteries when I could always use the house current?”

“I don’t see what possible relevance your little volt-and-a-half batteries could have to my problem,” observed the Hoover testily.

The radio looked hurt. Usually the Hoover would never have made such an unkind and slighting remark, but the weeks of worry were having their effect on all of them.

“It’s our problem,” the toaster pointed out in a tone of mild reproof, “and the radio is right, you know. If we could find a large enough battery, we could strap it under the seat of the chair and set off this very afternoon.”

“If!” sniffed the Hoover scornfully. “If! If!”

“And I know where there may be a battery as big as we need!” the tensor lamp piped. “Have you ever looked inside that lean-to behind the cottage?”

“Into the tool shed!” said the blanket with a shudder of horror. “Certainly not! It’s dark and musty and filled with spiders.”

“Well, I was in it just yesterday, poking about, and there was something behind the broken rake and some old paint cans—a big, black, boxy thing. Of course it was nothing like your pretty red cylinders.” The tensor lamp tipped its hood towards the radio. “But now that I think of it, it may have been a kind of battery.”

The appliances all trooped out to the lean-to, and there in the darkest corner, just as the lamp had supposed, was the spare battery that had come from the master’s old Volkswagen. The battery had been brand- new at the time that he’d decided to trade in the VW on a yellow Saab, and so he’d replaced this one in the lean- to and then—wasn’t it just his way?—forgetting all about it.

Between them, the old Hoover and the toaster knew enough about the basic principles of electricity to be able, very quickly, to wire the battery so that it would serve their needs instead of an automobile’s. But before any of the small appliances who may be listening to this tale should begin to think that they might do the same thing, let them be warned: ELECTRICITY IS VERY DANGEROUS. Never play with old batteries! Never put your plug in a strange socket! And if you are in any doubt about the voltage of