Free The Treasure of Mr Tipp by Margaret Ryan Page A

“You’re just what I need.”

Chapter Two

    I stood stock still in the dim light, heart thumping, knees wobbling. “The… The… The door was open…” I managed to say.
    The robot reached up and took off its diver’s helmet. A kind face under some straggly white hair appeared. “Mr Tipp?” I asked faintly.
    The man nodded. “Charlie can’t have turned the handle properly when he closed the door,” he said. “There’s still a slight problem with his programming.” I must have looked puzzled because Mr Tipp went on. “That’s Charlie over there. The robot wearing the red rubber glove on his right hand. I thought it would improve his grip.”
    â€œPerhaps he’s left-handed,” I gulped.
    â€œI hadn’t thought of that,” smiled Mr Tipp, stepping out of the tinfoil overalls to reveal a patchwork jersey and tartan trousers. “Tinfoil really does keep you warm, you know. This kind of suit might be useful for old people in the winter. Not sure about the diver’s helmet, though. Better find another use for that.”

    â€œWhat about a goldfish bowl,” I suggested. “I’ve heard that goldfish like a place to hide because they don’t like being stared at all the time.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Mr Tipp. “Now, who are
you
? No, don’t tell me. You must be the paperboy. I’ve seen you puffing up the hill on your bike.”
    â€œI’m Jonny Smith,” I said. “It’s hard work riding my old bike – it’s too small. So I’m saving up for a new one.”
    â€œI ride a three-wheeler that used to belong to my grandfather,” smiled Mr Tipp. “We never throw anything away in our family.”
    I could believe that. There was stuff everywhere. “Do you make different kinds of robots?” I asked, gazing around.
    Mr Tipp nodded. “Look over here. I’ve just finished making a scarobot to stop the birds eating the seeds on my roof garden.”
    I’d seen scarecrows in the fields before, but never anything like this. It looked like it was made from an old shop-window dummy. It was dressed in a plastic patchwork suit and a red bobble hat. On its feet were giant-sized wellies.

    â€œThe gent’s outfitters in town was closing down,” explained Mr Tipp. “They put this dummy out in their skip and I rescued it. Now, once the scarobot’s on the roof, I’m going to fill these wellies with wet sand to weigh it down. But I’m not as young as I used to be and I need a hand to carry it up there. Right – you grab the head.”
    I did as I was told and we staggered out of the house. I held the scarobot while Mr Tipp fetched a ladder. Holding the dummy between us, we climbed onto the flat roof and placed it in the middle of the garden.
    â€œExcellent,” beamed Mr Tipp. “Now I’ll pour the sand into the wellies while you go and fill the watering can. It’s in the shed somewhere.”
    I climbed back down the ladder and looked for the shed. I found it hidden behind some overgrown brambles. It wasn’t a proper shed, more like an old canvas igloo, and it was full of junk, too. Eventually, I found the watering can tucked inside an old tumble dryer. I filled it with water from the garden tap, then climbed back onto the roof.

    â€œWell done,” said Mr Tipp. “I’ve loaded the wellies with sand. You add the water while I make sure the scarobot’s arms work.” He took a remote-control device from his trouser pocket, pressed a red button, and the scarobot’s arms moved up and down.
    â€œWow,” I said.
    Mr Tipp looked pleased. “What shall we call him? I like to give my robots names.”
    I looked at the scarobot’s bobble hat. “How about Bob?”
    â€œBob it is,” cried Mr Tipp. “I once had a teacher called Bob.”
    â€œOh no,” I cried. “A