Матильда
Mr. Wormwood, the Great Car Dealer
"Nooneevergotrichbeinghonest,"thefathersaid.
"Customersaretheretobediddled."
Mr.Wormwoodwasasmallratty-lookingmanwhosefrontteethstuckoutunderneathathinrattymoustache. Helikedtowearjacketswithlargebrightly-colouredchecksandhesportedtiesthatwereusuallyyelloworpalegreen. "Nowtakemileageforinstance,"hewenton. "Anyonewho’sbuyingasecond-handcar,thefirstthinghewantstoknowishowmanymilesit’sdone. Right?"
"Right,"thesonsaid.
"SoIbuyanolddumpthat’sgotaboutahundredandfiftythousandmilesontheclock.Igetitcheap. Butnoone’sgoingtobuyitwithamileagelikethat,arethey? Andthesedaysyoucan’tjusttakethespeedometeroutandfiddlethenumbersbacklikeyouusedtotenyearsago. They’vefixeditsoit’simpossibletotamperwithitunlessyou’rearuddywatchmakerorsomething. SowhatdoIdo? Iusemybrains,laddie,that’swhatIdo."
"How? "youngMichaelasked,fascinated. Heseemedtohaveinheritedhisfather’sloveofcrookery.
"Isitdownandsaytomyself,howcanIconvertamileagereadingofonehundredandfiftythousandintoonlytenthousandwithouttakingthespeedometertopieces? Well,ifIweretorunthecarbackwardsforlongenoughthenobviouslythatwoulddoit.Thenumberswouldclickbackwards,wouldn’tthey? Butwho’sgoingtodriveaflamingcarinreverseforthousandsandthousandsofmiles? Youcouldn’tdoit!"
"Ofcourseyoucouldn’t,"youngMichaelsaid.
"SoIscratchmyhead,"thefathersaid.
