Something wasn't right, and Charles Dickens couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was as if the whole universe was slightly wonky. He reached over to his bedside table and retrieved the compass he kept by his favourite comb. He stared red-eyed at the needle as it wobbled around its point, then exclaimed 'A-Ha! I knew it!'
Just then, Young Skull and Chickenstalker ran past his door, giggling like madmen and waving wooden swords. He called sternly to them, and a moment later they peeped nervously around the door.
Dickens cleared his throat and began combing his hair for the twentieth time that morning. 'Did you chaps knock into my bed? It isn't quite facing north-south.'
'No, Boz,' said Young Skull earnestly. 'I promise we didn't.'
'Hmm,' said Dickens uncertainly. He could hypnotise the truth out of them, of course, but that would leave less time for cleaning the house and combing his hair. 'Very well, run along.'
He nudged his bed back into the only correct position and sighed in relief, then tapped the bed twice more for luck. Then he combed his hair again. But it still didn't feel quite combed enough, so he continued to comb it. And when he got a spare moment, he wrote some books too.
