They passed another door, then another and another. There were doors every twenty paces or so along the corridor now, and they all had something written on them, and strange clanking noises were coming from behind several of them, and delicious smells came wafting through the keyholes, and sometimes little jets of colored steam shot out from the cracks underneath.

  Grandpa Joe and Charlie were half running and half walking to keep up with Mr. Wonka, but they were able to read what it said on quite a few of the doors as they hurried by. EATABLE MARSHMALLOW PILLOWS, it said on one.

  “Marshmallow pillows are terrific!” shouted Mr. Wonka as he dashed by. “They’ll be all the rage when I get them into the shops! No time to go in, though! No time to go in!”

  LICKABLE WALLPAPER FOR NURSERIES, it said on the next door.

  “Lovely stuff, lickable wallpaper!” cried Mr. Wonka, rushing past. “It has pictures of fruits on it—bananas, apples, oranges, grapes, pineapples, strawberries, and snozzberries. . . .”

  “Snozzberries?” said Mike Teavee.

  “Don’t interrupt!” said Mr. Wonka. “The wallpaper has pictures of all these fruits printed on it, and when you lick the picture of a banana, it tastes of banana. When you lick a strawberry, it tastes of strawberry. And when you lick a snozzberry, it tastes just exactly like a snozzberry. . . .”

  “But what does a snozzberry taste like?”

  “You’re mumbling again,” said Mr. Wonka. “Speak louder next time. On we go! Hurry up!”

  HOT ICE CREAMS FOR COLD DAYS, it said on the next door.

  “Extremely useful in the winter,” said Mr. Wonka, rushing on. “Hot ice cream warms you up no end in freezing weather. I also make hot ice cubes for putting in hot drinks. Hot ice cubes make hot drinks hotter.”

  COWS THAT GIVE CHOCOLATE MILK, it said on the next door.

  “Ah, my pretty little cows!” cried Mr. Wonka. “How I love those cows!”

  “But why can’t we see them?” asked Veruca Salt. “Why do we have to go rushing on past all these lovely rooms?”

  “We shall stop in time!” called out Mr. Wonka. “Don’t be so madly impatient!”

  FIZZY LIFTING DRINKS, it said on the next door.

  “Oh, those are fabulous!” cried Mr. Wonka. “They fill you with bubbles, and the bubbles are full of a special kind of gas, and this gas is so terrifically lifting that it lifts you right off the ground just like a balloon, and up you go until your head hits the ceiling—and there you stay.”

  “But how do you come down again?” asked little Charlie.

  “You do a burp, of course,” said Mr. Wonka. “You do a great big long rude burp, and up comes the gas and down comes you! But don’t drink it outdoors! There’s no knowing how high up you’ll be carried if you do that. I gave some to an old Oompa-Loompa once out in the back yard and he went up and up and up and disappeared out of sight! It was very sad. I never saw him again.”

  “He should have burped,” Charlie said.

  “Of course he should have burped,” said Mr. Wonka. “I stood there shouting, ‘Burp, you silly ass, burp, or you’ll never come down again! But he didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t, I don’t know which. Maybe he was too polite. He must be on the moon by now.”

  On the next door, it said, SQUARE CANDIES THAT LOOK ROUND.

  “Wait!” cried Mr. Wonka, skidding suddenly to a halt. “I am very proud of my square candies that look round. Let’s take a peek.”

  23

  Square Candies That Look Round

  EVERYBODY STOPPED and crowded to the door. The top half of the door was made of glass. Grandpa Joe lifted Charlie up so that he could get a better view, and looking in, Charlie saw a long table, and on the table there were rows and rows of small white square-shaped candies. The candies looked very much like square sugar lumps—except that each of them had a funny little pink face painted on one side. At the end of the table, a number of Oompa-Loompas were busily painting more faces on more candies.

  “There you are!” cried Mr. Wonka. “Square candies that look round!”

  “They don’t look round to me,” said Mike Teavee.

  “They look square,” said Veruca Salt. “They look completely square.”

  “But they are square,” said Mr. Wonka. “I never said they weren’t.”

  “You said they were round!” said Veruca Salt.

  “I never said anything of the sort,” said Mr. Wonka. “I said they looked round.”

  “But they don’t look round!” said Veruca Salt. “They look square!”

  “They look round,” insisted Mr. Wonka.

  “They most certainly do not look round!” cried Veruca Salt.

  “Veruca, darling,” said Mrs. Salt, “pay no attention to Mr. Wonka! He’s lying to you!”

  “My dear old fish,” said Mr. Wonka, “go and boil your head!”

  “How dare you speak to me like that!” shouted Mrs. Salt.

  “Oh, do shut up,” said Mr. Wonka. “Now watch this!” He took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door, and flung it open . . . and suddenly . . . at the sound of the door opening, all the rows and rows of little square candies looked quickly round to see who was coming in. The tiny faces actually turned toward the door and stared at Mr. Wonka.

  “There you are!” he cried triumphantly. “They’re looking round! There’s no argument about it! They are square candies that look round!”

  “By golly, he’s right!” said Grandpa Joe.

  “Come on!” said Mr. Wonka, starting off down the corridor again. “On we go! We mustn’t dawdle!”

  BUTTERSCOTCH AND BUTTERGIN, it said on the next door they passed.

  “Now that sounds a bit more interesting,” said Mr. Salt, Veruca’s father.

  “Glorious stuff!” said Mr. Wonka. “The Oompa-Loompas all adore it. It makes them tiddly. Listen! You can hear them in there now, whooping it up.”

  Shrieks of laughter and snatches of singing could be heard coming through the closed door.

  “They’re drunk as lords,” said Mr. Wonka. “They’re drinking butterscotch and soda. They like that best of all. Buttergin and tonic is also very popular. Follow me, please! We really mustn’t keep stopping like this.” He turned left. He turned right. They came to a long flight of stairs. Mr. Wonka slid down the bannisters. The three children did the same. Mrs. Salt and Mrs. Teavee, the only women now left in the party, were getting very out of breath. Mrs. Salt was a great fat creature with short legs, and she was blowing like a rhinoceros. “This way!” cried Mr. Wonka, turning left at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Go slower!” panted Mrs. Salt.

  “Impossible,” said Mr. Wonka. “We should never get there in time if I did.”

  “Get where?” asked Veruca Salt.

  “Never you mind,” said Mr. Wonka. “You just wait and see.”

  24

  Veruca in the Nut Room

  MR. WONKA RUSHED ON down the corridor. THE NUT ROOM, it said on the next door they came to.

  “All right,” said Mr. Wonka, “stop here for a moment and catch your breath, and take a peek through the glass panel of this door. But don’t go in! Whatever you do, don’t go into THE NUT ROOM! If you go in, you’ll disturb the squirrels!”

  Everyone crowded around the door.

  “Oh look, Grandpa, look!” cried Charlie.

  “Squirrels!” shouted Veruca Salt.

  “Jeepers!” said Mike Teavee.

  It was an amazing sight. One hundred squirrels were seated upon high stools around a large table. On the table, there were mounds and mounds of walnuts, and the squirrels were all working away like mad, shelling the walnuts at a tremendous speed.

  “These squirrels are specially trained for getting the nuts out of walnuts,” Mr. Wonka explained.

  “Why use squirrels?” Mike Teavee asked. “Why not use Oompa-Loompas?”

  “Because,” said Mr. Wonka, “Oompa-Loompas can’t get walnuts out of walnut shells in one piece. They always break them in two. Nobody except squirrels can get walnuts whole out of walnut shells every time. It is extremely difficult. But in my factory, I insist upon using only whole walnuts. Therefore I have to have squirrels to do the job. Aren’t they wonderful, the way they get those nuts out! And see how they first tap each walnut with their knuckles to be sure it’s not a bad one! If it’s bad, it makes a hollow sound, and they don’t bother to open it. They just throw it down the garbage chute. There! Look! Watch that squirrel nearest to us! I think he’s got a bad one now!”

  They watched the little squirrel as he tapped the walnut shell with his knuckles. He cocked his head to one side, listening intently, then suddenly he threw the nut over his shoulder into a large hole in the floor.

  “Hey, Mummy!” shouted Veruca Salt suddenly, “I’ve decided I want a squirrel! Get me one of those squirrels!”

  “Don’t be silly, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Salt. “These all belong to Mr. Wonka.”

  “I don’t care about that!” shouted Veruca. “I want one. All I’ve got at home is two dogs and four cats and six bunny rabbits and two parakeets and three canaries and a green parrot and a turtle and a bowl of goldfish and a cage of white mice and a silly old hamster! I want a squirrel!”

  “All right, my pet,” Mrs. Salt said soothingly. “Mummy’ll get you a squirrel just as soon as she possibly can.”

  “But I don’t want any old squirrel!” Veruca shouted. “I want a trained squirrel!”

  At this point, Mr. Salt, Veruca’s father, stepped forward. “Very well, Wonka,” he said importantly, taking out a wallet full of money, “how much d’you want for one of these crazy squirrels? Name your price.”

  “They’re not for sale,” Mr. Wonka answered. “She can’t have one.”

  “Who says I can’t!” shouted Veruca. “I’m going in to grab me a squirrel this very minute!”

  “Don’t!” said Mr. Wonka quickly, but he was too late. The girl had already thrown open the door and rushed in.

  The moment she entered the room, one hundred squirrels stopped what they were doing and turned their heads and stared at her with small black beady eyes.

  Veruca Salt stopped also, and stared back at them. Then her gaze fell upon a pretty little squirrel sitting nearest to her at the end of the table. The squirrel was holding a walnut in its paws.

  “All right,” Veruca said, “I’ll have you!”

  She reached out her hands to grab the squirrel . . . but as she did so . . . in that first split second when her hands started to go forward, there was a sudden flash of movement in the room, like a flash of brown lightning, and every single squirrel around the table took a flying leap towards her and landed on her body.

  Twenty-five of them caught hold of her right arm, and pinned it down.

  Twenty-five more caught hold of her left arm, and pinned that down.

  Twenty-five caught hold of her right leg and anchored it to the ground.

  Twenty-four caught hold of her left leg.

  And the one remaining squirrel (obviously the leader of them all) climbed up on to her shoulder and started tap-tap-tapping the wretched girl’s head with its knuckles.

  “Save her!” screamed Mrs. Salt. “Veruca! Come back! What are they doing to her?”

  “They’re testing her to see if she’s a bad nut,” said Mr. Wonka. “You watch.”

  Veruca struggled furiously, but the squirrels held her tight and she couldn’t move. The squirrel on her shoulder went tap-tap-tapping the side of her head with his knuckles.

  Then all at once, the squirrels pulled Veruca to the ground and started carrying her across the floor.

  “My goodness, she is a bad nut after all,” said Mr. Wonka. “Her head must have sounded quite hollow.”

  Veruca kicked and screamed, but it was no use. The tiny strong paws held her tightly and she couldn’t escape.

  “Where are they taking her?” shrieked Mrs. Salt.

  “She’s going where all the other bad nuts go,” said Mr. Willy Wonka. “Down the garbage chute.”

  “By golly, she is going down the chute!” said Mr. Salt, staring through the glass door at his daughter.

  “Then save her!” cried Mrs. Salt.

  “Too late,” said Mr. Wonka. “She’s gone!”

  And indeed she had.

  “But where?” shrieked Mrs. Salt, flapping her arms. “What happens to the bad nuts? Where does the chute go to?”

  “That particular chute,” Mr. Wonka told her, “runs directly into the great big main garbage pipe which carries away all the rubbish from every part of the factory—all the floor sweepings and potato peelings and rotten cabbages and fish heads and stuff like that.”

  “Who eats fish and cabbage and potatoes in this factory, I’d like to know?” said Mike Teavee.

  “I do, of course,” answered Mr. Wonka. “You don’t think I live on cacao beans, do you?”

  “But . . . but . . . but . . . ” shrieked Mrs. Salt, “where does the great big pipe go to in the end?”

  “Why, to the furnace, of course,” Mr. Wonka said calmly. “To the incinerator.”

  Mrs. Salt opened her huge red mouth and started to scream.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Wonka, “there’s always a chance that they’ve decided not to light it today.”

  “A chance!” yelled Mrs. Salt. “My darling Veruca! She’ll . . . she’ll . . . she’ll be sizzled like a sausage!”

  “Quite right, my dear,” said Mr. Salt. “Now see here, Wonka,” he added, “I think you’ve gone just a shade too far this time, I do indeed. My daughter may be a bit of a frump—I don’t mind admitting it—but that doesn’t mean you can roast her to a crisp. I’ll have you know I’m extremely cross about this, I really am.”

  “Oh, don’t be cross, my dear sir!” said Mr. Wonka. “I expect she’ll turn up again sooner or later. She may not even have gone down at all. She may be stuck in the chute just below the entrance hole, and if that’s the case, all you’ll have to do is go in and pull her up again.”

  Hearing this, both Mr. and Mrs. Salt dashed into the Nut Room and ran over to the hole in the floor and peered in.

  “Veruca!” shouted Mrs. Salt. “Are you down there!”

  There was no answer.

  Mrs. Salt bent further forward to get a closer look. She was now kneeling right on the edge of the hole with her head down and her enormous behind sticking up in the air like a giant mushroom. It was a dangerous position to be in. She needed only one tiny little push . . . one gentle nudge in the right place . . . and that is exactly what the squirrels gave her!

  Over she toppled, into the hole head first, screeching like a parrot.

  “Good gracious me!” said Mr. Salt, as he watched his fat wife go tumbling down the hole, “what a lot of garbage there’s going to be today!” He saw her disappearing into the darkness. “What’s it like down there, Angina?” he called out. He leaned further forward.

  The squirrels rushed up behind him. . . .

  “Help!” he shouted.

  But he was already toppling forward, and down the chute he went, just as his wife had done before him—and his daughter.

  “Oh dear!” cried Charlie, who was watching with the others through the door, “what on earth’s going to happen to them now?”

  “I expect someone will catch them at the bottom of the chute,” said Mr. Wonka.

  “But what about the great fiery incinerator?” asked Charlie.

  “They only light it every other day,” said Mr. Wonka. “Perhaps this is one of the days when they let it go out. You never know . . . they might be lucky. . . .”

  “Ssshh!” said Grandpa Joe. “Listen! Here comes another song!”

  From far away down the corridor came the beating of drums. Then the singing began.

  “Veruca Salt!” sang the Oompa-Loompas.

  “Veruca Salt, the little brute,

  Has just gone down the garbage chute,

  (And as we very rightly thought

  That in a case like this we ought

  To see the thing completely through,

  We’ve polished off her parents, too.)

  Down goes Veruca! Down the drain!

  And here, perhaps, we should explain

  That she will meet, as she descends,

  A rather different set of friends

  To those that she has left behind—

  These won’t be nearly so refined.

  A fish head, for example, cut

  This morning from a halibut.

  ‘Hello! Good morning! How d’you do?

  How nice to meet you! How are you?’

  And then a little further down

  A mass of others gather round:

  A bacon rind, some rancid lard,

  A loaf of bread gone stale and hard,

  A steak that nobody could chew,

  An oyster from an oyster stew,

  Some liverwurst so old and gray

  One smelled it from a mile away,

  A rotten nut, a reeky pear,

  A thing the cat left on the stair,

  And lots of other things as well,

  Each with a rather horrid smell.

  These are Veruca’s new found friends

  That she will meet as she descends,

  And this is the price she has to pay

  For going so very far astray.

  But now, my dears, we think you might

  Be wondering—is it really right

  That every single bit of blame

  And all the scolding and the shame

  Should fall upon Veruca Salt?

  Is she the only one at fault?

  For though she’s spoiled, and dreadfully so,

  A girl can’t spoil herself, you know.

  Who spoiled her, then? Ah, who indeed?

  Who pandered to her every need?

  Who turned her into such a brat?

  Who are the culprits? Who did that?

  Alas! You needn’t look so far