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-Although of course, you might have guessed that already!


The next day, Fiddleford was woken up early by the smell of Tabasco sauce, which had quadrupled in strength and potency since he'd fallen asleep in his new bed. There was also a deep thrum within the walls of the house, which confirmed that the factory had woken up for the day. Fiddleford was amazed, having never seen a man work on a Sunday in his life.

"I didn't think it'd be workin', on account of it being a Sunday an' all," he commented off-handedly at breakfast. Aunt Clara looked up from her mushroom omelette and sighed.

"Machines don't have a day of rest, Fiddleford," she pointed out. "Things like that are done by them these days. Why do you think everyone here is out of a job?" Fiddleford thought about this. Although it wasn't fair, he could see the merit. Imagine having a machine to do whatever you wanted.

"Now. It's seven am. I need to be at the Museum of Artifacts by eight, and I'll be staying there all day. I'm taking the key, so you can go out and not come back till five, or you can stay inside all day."

He considered the option carefully. He was curious about the rest of the house, especially the attic, but there'd be plenty of time to explore in the evening. Also, school started the next day, and he'd have to wait almost a week before he could go out again. "I'll... go to the beach, if it's all the same to you, ma'am."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Here's two dollars. Use them wisely, you won't eat again till dinnertime." Fiddleford took them gratefully, and headed out, making sure to take his banjo with him.

Playing his banjo - and music in general - was one of Fiddleford's biggest comforts from back home. His Pa had got him into it, and said he was getting quite good. There was no way he was going to go three months without practicing at all. But one thing he knew about the banjo was that it wasn't a born crowd-pleaser. So what he was looking for was a quiet, isolated spot where he could play and retune and sing to his heart's content. But where, in a city like this, could he hide? He finally opted to head for the beach, being careful to watch where he was going so he would be able to find his way back.


Fiddleford walked along the beach, despondent. He'd been walking for what felt like hours, counting the muddled trek through town in search of the shore, and his stomach was already rumbling. He looked at his wristwatch, swiping aside his homemade maroon jumper to get a look at it. It was only eleven o'clock. Eleven o'clock! He'd never last another six hours, even if he got a sandwich or soup with his two dollars right then. If only he had some music to take his mind off things...

And then, just when he was losing all hope, he saw it. A tiny yacht, broken and abandoned, on the shore, far from the stores which lined the promenade. Fiddleford couldn't believe his luck. Not only did he know his way round, he had a den too! He'd fit in here in no time, he told himself, if he had his own secret base.

He approached the boat with caution, his banjo slung over his back with a makeshift leather strap. He knocked loudly on the side of the wooden vessel. A rat skittered out onto the sand, but nothing else stirred. The wood wasn't even that rotten. Satisfied that the yacht was now his own to keep, Fiddleford climbed in through a decent-sized hole in the hull.

It was the perfect hiding place. Although it was small and cramped, and smelt strongly of barnacles, a stream of light through another hole ensured the space was well lit. The smell could be dealt with later, he rationalised. For now, he had a place to play. Eagerly, he retrieved the banjo from his back, and pondered on what he should play. Maybe his country cover of "Love Me Do" that he'd been working on? Or something else...

While he was deciding, his restless fingers struck a lazy G-chord.

"WHATAHELLDYATHINKYADOIN!" Fiddleford shrieked in terror, as a grumpy-looking head poked through the top of his hiding spot, upside down. The head had messy brown hair, impressive sunburn, and was covered in dirt. A second later, the frown became puzzled. "What're you lookin' at, short stuff?"

"Stanley, don't be mean." Another head dropped down to see what the commotion was. This one was slightly less filthy than the other, and a pair of glasses slipped around on his nose. "He might not have known the Stan o' War belonged to anybody."

"Well, he should've looked at our work." The kid without glasses jabbed a finger at the inside of the hull. For the first time, Fiddleford noticed that two names had been written there. Stanley and Stanford Pines. Twins, he assumed."What you got to say now?" Stanley sneered. "This here's Pines property, so get out." The other twin, the one who'd stood up for him earlier, shrugged.

"Well, it is sort of our boat," he explained. "You can request permission to come aboard if you want. That's allowed."

"P-P-P-Permission to come aboard, captain?" Fiddleford squeaked, clutching his banjo.

"Permission granted!" Stanford looked delighted. "See, Stanley? He thinks I'm the captain!"

"He's just a little kid, what does he know?" Stanley argued. Then, his frown cleared as he noticed Fiddleford's instrument. "Huh. You play the banjo?"

"Uh... yes." At that moment, all hostility vanished in an instant as if it had never been there. They jumped down from their perches.

"Woah, that's amazing!"

"That is so awesome!"

"Is it really hard to learn?"

"Can you play anything by Elvis Presley?"

"Of course he can't! Presley is for nerds and cat ladies."

"Actually, I do know a couple songs of Elvis'," Fiddleford heard himself say. He played the first few chords of Can't Help Falling In Love with a fast-paced rhythm, to the amazement of the Pines twins. "I know it's kinda soppy..."

"Are you kidding? I'd love to be able to do that! You did it so fast; I could barely see your fingers move at all." Stanford pointed towards the neck of the banjo. As he did so, he got a proper look at the twin's hands. One, two, three, four... five fingers, and a thumb. His eyes flickered to Stanley's hands. Only four fingers. Which were currently clenched in a fist. Looking up at the scowling face, it occurred to Fiddleford that a lot of other people would probably be surprised by this too. And most likely were. Dragging his eyes away from Stanley's warning look, he turned to Stanford.

"So you like Elvis, huh Stanford?" Stanley's face relaxed at last, and he allowed his fists to come loose. Stanford, meanwhile, tried to fake disinterest.

"His music is okay, I suppose, if you like that kind of-"

"He freakin' loves him," informed Stanley gravely. "He sings it in the bathroom all the time. Like this-" Ignoring his twin brother's protests, he launched into an impression of a bathroom concert. "WIIIIISE MEEEHN SAAAAY, ONLY FOOOOOLS RUUUSH IIIIN-"

"It's not anything like that!" insisted Stanford, as he wrestled his brother to the ground. "He's a true musician! Don't listen to him..." He stopped suddenly, standing up and facing Fiddleford. "What did you say your name was?"

"F-Fiddleford."

"Gesundheit," said Stanley cheerfully, holding out a grimy hand. "Nice to meet you, Fidds. I'm Stan, and I'm the cool one. Me and that nerd are both ten."

"I'm goin' on ten in December."

"Pull the other one."

"No, really, I am!" insisted Fiddleford. "I'm a-stayin' here with my aunt for a while."

"Do you always do that? Add extra bits to words when you're mad?"

"Stan, don't be rude!" scolded Stanford. "Glad to meet you, Fiddleford. Hey, it's around lunchtime. We were going to work on the Stan o' War in the afternoon, but we brought lunch."

"Um, it's alright. I brought money, see?" Fiddleford showed them his two dollars. Stan's eyes lit up.

"Hey, what'd ya say we pool resources?" he said, only slightly too eager-looking. "We brought sandwiches, and oranges. We could get something else and share everything." Stanford rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"That... does sound sensible. So long as none of us mind spending the two dollars now? Hey, it's your money, so you call what we spend it on." Fiddleford thought long and hard.

"I've always wanted to try an Oreo cookie," he admitted. "They don't sell them where I'm from."

"INTERVENTION!" yelled Stan. "As health experts, we will not allow you to go another day without knowing the joy of biting into a chocolatey, grainy, creamy cookie! Very well. Today we shall feast on sandwiches, oranges... and Oreos."


What can I say? This is how men bond, right? Over biscuits, I mean. I have no idea; I just love cookies.