Mudpoo and the Fungus Mystery by Peter Klein Page A

feather and a freshly picked wild flower carefully tucked into the band. He had a hairy, bent nose, rotten, crooked teeth and a ragged beard with a peculiar green tinge growing around the edges. Some say that it was green fungi; others say it was stale, leftover food. Fungus McPhee couldn’t care less. He didn’t have a mirror; it’d only break out here in the bush and he didn’t need seven years of bad luck, especially just when his luck was about to change.
    His camp included his patched canvas tent, a campfire, a good supply of firewood and food supplies (mostly tinned beans and jam). It was hidden high in the rolling hills where no-one ever visited him. Everyone had simply forgotten about the old Bethanga gold mine.
    Fungus was a kind of inventor and muttered to himself, “I’m Fungus McPhee and I’m smart, I can do anything, just ask me!”
    He was proud he had built his own ‘Fungus’ inventions that he’d carefully hidden around his camp. No-one but Fungus McPhee knew what they were used for.
    A very large lock and an old chunky chain protected the two solid doors that guarded the entrance to his precious gold mine. He wasn’t taking any chances. No-one was going to discover his secret; not yet anyhow, not until he’d made his fortune. He puffed on his Blue Gum pipe, the stench from his rabbit dung tobacco wafted over him, keeping the blow flies away.
    â€˜I’ve more work to do tonight and it won’t be too long before I put my plan into action,’ thought Fungus McPhee as he carefully whittled his walking stick with his sharp, dangerous knife. All around his camp he had carefully arranged everything so that you wouldn’t know he was there unless you were one of the wedge-tailed eagles, or little eagles, who often soared above nearby.
    Fungus McPhee would curse them if they flew too close to his camp.
    â€œRotten, useless birds! Come near me and you’ll get the taste of my knife!” he’d angrily call, waving his bony arms about.
    The eagles knew to keep a safe distance from the camp. They had an uneasy feeling that their cantankerous neighbour was up to no good.
    â€œBah, hrmmff, phooey,” muttered Fungus McPhee as he plucked some purple Paterson’s curse from a nearby plant and carefully tucked it into the band of his hat.
    â€œI’m expecting visitors soon,” he grizzled under his breath.
    â€˜My secret plan is so clever, I even surprise myself,’ he thought, looking rather pleased.
    Suddenly he sprang to his feet; “It’s time to work!” declared Fungus McPhee as he fumbled in the pocket of his patched canvas trousers for the rusty old key to his GOLD mine.
    The gate creaked and groaned as Fungus McPhee opened the mine. When he entered, his own foul odour was so strong it even overpowered the mine’s deep musty smells.
    The sun sank beneath the beautiful Bethanga hills, casting shadows over the distant town. A lonely boobook owl hooted as everyone settled in for the night; all except Fungus McPhee, whose dastardly work was about to begin!

M udpoo, Harry, Captain Pete and Gus live on a small farm in Bethanga. Their property is a mish-mash of long grass and broken down old deer fences, with views of the valley below. Gus, the Kombi van, was resting and looking rather forlorn, with grass sprouting up through his tyres. Every afternoon Captain Pete would rest in Gus’ front seat, with his feet up, reading the paper and not drive anywhere. Things were happening lazily in Bethanga, except for one thing!
    Mudpoo and Harry were quietly sitting on a log on their favourite hill one evening, admiring the sunset, when Harry looked puzzled.
    â€œIs that paddock moving, or is it my imagination?” asked a wide-eyed Harry.
    â€œMoving . . . ?” replied Mudpoo, with his mouth agape.
    â€œIs that paddock moving, or is it my imagination?” asked a wide-eyed Harry.
    â€œMoving . . . ?”