In the middle of the night, then, they both filled pillow cases with their most precious things. Mrs. Pockets put into her pillow case the little framed portrait of Mr. Pockets along with the chiming clock from the parlor, some of her best silver, two practical dresses and a pale yellow table scarf which had been embroidered with blue forget-me-nots by her great aunt Salisaw Halfcott long before she was born. Farnaby put Mr. Feet, his stuffed caterpillar, into his pillowcase along with a toy wheelbarrow, some clothes which his mother said were practical and the rock which he had found that looked like a frog on one side and a rock on the other.
Farnaby asked his mother about their secret hiding place and the little sock that held their hard-earned savings and his mother replied, as cheerfully as she could at that time of night and under those very trying circumstances, that, alas, she was afraid the little sock that held their hard-earned savings was quite empty because of all the money that they were owed by Mr. Neversmythe. Then Mrs. Pockets looked at Farnaby as if she had just thought of something important and said, "Mr. Neversmythe's locker!"
On their way to Mr. Neversmythe's room, Mrs. Pockets said that if there was any money in the locker they must take only enough to pay for what Mr. Neversmythe owed them and not a mousefarthing more.
"But how shall we open it?" Farnaby asked. "Mr. Neversmythe always wears the key around his neck."
"Hmm," Mrs. Pockets said. "Yes, that's true, isn't it? Well, we must try to open it anyway. Perhaps he has hidden another key in the room somewhere."
But although they searched in the dresser drawers, on top of the wardrobe, under the mattress and everywhere else they could think of, they could not find another key. The locker was quite locked all right and looked sturdy. Mrs. Pockets said, "Well, my dear, we must try banging on it, I think." And they did. But while the lock did not break open as they had hoped, something else did happen. When Farnaby struck the lock with the doorstop, the locker itself moved. Mrs. Pockets and Farnaby had thought that if the locker were full of money, as they hoped, it should be very heavy. But they now realized that it wasn't heavy at all. In fact, when they lifted it, it seemed possible that it was completely empty. Their hearts sank a little as they felt quite sure they would get nothing of value from the locker to collect Mr. Neversmythe's debt. "Let's carry it into the kitchen," Mrs. Pockets said as she took the handle on one end and Farnaby took the one on the other. "Perhaps we can open it with a utensil of some sort." But, before he had gone two steps down the stairs, Farnaby accidentally dropped his end and the locker tumbled and bumped and crashed all the way to the bottom and landed upside down and open!
Just as Mrs. Pockets and Farnaby suspected, there was almost nothing in it. Only a single piece of paper had fallen out of the locker and lay on the floor beneath it. Scrawled on the paper, in very poor penmanship, was the following:
Neversmythe,
Knowing full well what it is you thought was in this locker here, it gives me a peculiar kind of pleasure to inform you that what you hoped was in here ain't. We got it.
And I don't mind telling you that if it was any good to us we wouldn't be communicating with the likes of you. But the fact is, Neversmythe, this blasted map ain't no good to nobody because the booty's already been dug up. Our old friend has double-crossed us again.
All we know for sure is that he disappeared after that raid in which you, sir, like to have got us all killed. It's very plain he wanted us to think that he was killed, but we don't. But then he ain't living among no voles we can find neither. So we think he's hiding out with some other kind of creatures in one of his fancy disguises. But since he can't resist showing off that jeweled dagger, we'll find him sooner or later.
We have voted and what we say is this: despise you as we may, if you find him before we do, we'll cut you in for a full share of anything we can get out of him. If you do find him let us know. He ain't no match for all of us at once.
Yours and so forth,
Scratcher Doheeny
"What does it mean?" Farnaby asked his mother.
"It means that Mr. Pickerel was not a field mouse. Now Farnaby, while I finish up here, you must run next door and see how Miss Middlechippers fares. Help her with her things, dear, and bring her back with you. Then we must go to join the others. Quickly now. It gets very late."
Farnaby hurried right out the door and smack into someone—someone strong and grown-up, someone he had seen before, someone who, once again, took hold of him with an iron grip and who had a gold ring in his ear and a patch over one eye.
As for the Fieldpeas, I must tell you that they were discouraged beyond measure. They had to make difficult choices about which personal things were most dear to them, yes. But it wasn't that. In that, they were no worse off (nor better) than anyone in Tottensea Burrows. No, they weren't feeling sorry for themselves on that account.
It was the book shop.
They gathered there, the lot of them, and stood in desolation, looking helplessly at hundreds of books. Hundreds of them, I tell you! Of course, you know what they were thinking. "How many books can a mouse carry?" is what they were thinking. "There are five of us. And all these books!"
One or two of the girls broke down briefly and sobbed, I'm afraid. But we must try to remember how tired they had been when they fell into bed that night. And here they were, barely an hour or two later, facing an impossible task like this and where would they sleep the next night and nothing would ever be the same for them again and who could tell them how all this would end and...would you just look at all those books!
There was a small knocking on the door of The Bookish Mouse. Wearily, yet with some curiosity, too, Mrs. Emmalina Fieldpea went to the door and opened it. And there before her, of all things, stood the Fidgetsons! All seventeen of them! What were they doing here? There was Mr. Fidgetson and Mrs. Fidgetson and behind the two of them, peeking round skirt and trousers of their parents, were all manner of little Fidgetsons.
Mr. Fidgetson said, "We were thinking you might need help with the books."
Letitia Fidgetson took two of them—mouseling books, hers were, and so beautifully illustrated that she wished she could sit down with them, right there. Thurgood Fidgetson, completely on the other hand, was altogether pleased that he would not have to read his book, now or at any other time, because he had looked through it twice and there were no pictures. Not a single one. Still, it was the book Grenadine Fieldpea had handed him and he would do his duty by it. "This is a wonderful poetry book, Thurgood," Grenadine had said to him. "I hope you'll be very careful with it." And of course, Thurgood was careful—famously careful, as it turned out. In fact, to this day, no one has any idea how he ever managed to be so careful with that book!
The Fidgetsons' help was heartening, of course, though hardly a solution to the problem. But no sooner had the Fidgetsons gone off with twenty-six books in cartage (by Incarnadine's reckoning) than in trooped the Chiselteeths! And there were nineteen of them (three full litters!). And the Baileywiks came after that. Fifteen of them. And the Fusibles. Nine, I believe. Fourteen Scatterbys. Ten Gnawlings. Twelve Cheddarlees. And I lost count. You could ask Incarnadine how many families came to carry off books that night. Incarnadine would know.
Emmalina Fieldpea absolutely teared up when she realized how much these mice loved books. And she was glad for every oat-seed cake and every dollop of blackthorn jam that she had ever served up to these wonderful friends at four o'clock of an afternoon. It had been well worth it she said to Almandine who was standing on a ladder handing books down to her (which she, in turn, handed on to Glendowner and Grenadine, who were making the decisions while Incarnadine kept the count). It had been more than just worth it, Emmalina said, on second thought. It had been a high privilege.
Certainly, they didn't get all the books out that night. Its shelves were far from empty when The Bookish Mouse closed for the last time. But thanks to the kindness and thoughtfulness of many friends and to the general love of books all round Tottense
a, most of the great mouseclassics were saved.
There were no tears at the Baggses' on the night of leaving Tottensea Burrows, as the whole family was entirely too busy trying to save the Mousewriter. Since Opportune Baggs couldn't think of leaving his machine behind and since it was altogether too big and complicated to carry with them as it was, he did the only reasonable thing. He and some of the children took it apart and parceled it out to various members of the family, piece by piece.
This meant that Parnassus Baggs, for example, not only sorted through his own things that evening to choose his favorite books, toys, clothes and drawings to take along, but that he also occupied himself with loosening the three upper set screws on the frontmost jack pawl cleat located just below the right knee treadle linkage so that he could then disengage the rear toggle pin from the longitudinal coupling strap. This, of course, freed up the transverse wedging latchet very nicely so that it could be carried off into the night by, say, Andronicus Baggs, along with his cricket bat, a pair of ice skates and one or two peanut butter sandwiches.
Merchanty Swift told Mrs. Nickelpenny to take only her own things that night. "Don't trouble for any of this," he said, dismissing his considerable possessions with a careless wave of his paw. "It's only stuff, after all, and the world's full of it." Nevertheless, he did sling a small satchel over his shoulder that night—a satchel into which he had packed certain pewter tankards (and packed them carefully, I might add, to forestall any clanking about as he walked). But they were all he took, those tankards. And only those for love of his friends.
Sir Rotherham took the silver tea service that had been in the Twickets family from as far as back as the mice had any history of. Umpteen Weeks went with his walking cane and said he wouldn't need any of the other nonsense. The General Of Tottensea Burrows packed the Clausewitz and a handsome brace of flintlock pistols he'd bought off an Etruscan shrew who had decided to stick to teeth, he said.
Quicklesmith Peets carried pickling jars away that night. And Wrinkles Freestone took a rocking chair.
So it went throughout Tottensea Burrows. All under the ground, many different kinds of bags and trunks and suitcases were sternly tested through a long and difficult night as everyone thought of just one more thing that must be stuffed into them if at all possible. And after a night of bewildering decisions and many questions (such as "But Mother, may I have my toys again when we come back?") and while comforting pats were being administered all round, the burrows of Tottensea were finally and most reluctantly boarded up. And in the small hours of a summer morning, a long thin column of heavy-hearted and over-laden little emigrants streamed out across a moonlit lawn in search of security and better prospects for the children—prospects such as growing up, for example.
CHAPTER 21
Bad Animals
When Farnaby Pockets had run out the door to fetch Miss Middlechippers and had run right into Mr. Frenchie Grimwott and had made a sound like "Oof!" in doing it, Mrs. Pockets heard the small commotion and went toward the door. But then she backed away from that door as through it came a most alarming collection of creatures, all of them dressed in rough clothing and hatted with strange headwear—tricorns, spotted kerchiefs and a wide-brimmed thing or two with feathers on them. She saw that each of them carried a weapon of some kind on his hip or stuffed into his belt. "Bandits!" she thought to herself. "Or pirates, more like!" They came crowding into her little kitchen, as many as could do, until it was quite overrun. There was a vole, several lemmings and some ship rats in her kitchen and more outside, looking in the door. One of the lemmings she knew. And her heart jumped as she saw a large bad-looking ship rat holding onto Farnaby.
The vole stepped forward a little, removed his three-cornered hat and held it, respectfully, as it were, with both paws in front of his chest. "Don't be alarmed, mum," he said.
Mrs. Proserpine Pockets was very alarmed. "Who are you?" she said. "What do you want? Give me my boy!"
None of the brigands moved. The vole cleared his throat and spoke formally, as if he had prepared a speech, "I am Mr. Doheeny, at your service, mum." He dipped his head slightly in a small and, under the circumstances, entirely ridiculous gesture of courtesy and he grinned at her in a leering sort of way that made the skin on the back of her neck feel as if it were trying to crawl away and hide in some other place.
"And it has come to our attention," Mr. Doheeny went on, "through the good offices of our dear friend Mr. Neversmythe, here, who I understand took lodgings in this very place, that you may be in position to be of wondrous help to the poor humble creatures as you see before you now." He turned his hat in his paws as he talked. "We be interested to find the abode of a certain departed animal who by great villainy has tooken to himself much worldly goods what was owed to us by right. And if you'll only be so kind now, mum, as to direct us to that abode, then we'll be on our way and leavin' you with our unbounded gratitude for your most creaturely kindness!"
"What animal?" Mrs. Pockets asked.
"Aye. And there's the rub, then, ain't it? Us not bein' party to what name it is you know him by, mum—him bein' in disguise and all and not his proper self, shockin' as it seems. But he'll be that self-same animal who came into this very place and frightened off poor Mr. Neversmythe, here, who never had done him no harm as long as he did live, mum, and did that frightenin', too, right before your very own eyes, as I'm told."
"Mr. Pickerel, you mean," Mrs. Pockets said.
"Aye. Who's that you say? 'Pickerel' is it? Now there's a name for you, lads! 'Mr. Pickerel' he called hisself in these parts. Well, ain't that a tidy moniker, then. I'll be thankin' you, mum, for clearin' up that bit o' mystery." And some of his crew snickered and said the name "Pickerel!" to one another in an unpleasant manner. The vole snickered, too, but then he got very serious. His eyes narrowed into something like a scowl and he said, in a different tone of voice and more quietly, "And where did this...Mr. Pickerel keep hisself and his things, if you please, mum?"
"Give me my boy, first." said Mrs. Pockets, bravely as she could and without blinking.
The vole edged closer. Mrs. Pockets would have moved back to keep a distance but, as she was already against a wall, she could only move her head to one side to let the vole know that he was too close. But, indeed, it was all the vole's purpose to be too close.
"Just tell us what you know, then," the vole said in a sort of growl. And looking right into her eyes, he added, slowly, "If you please, mum."
"He...he sometimes stayed at the pub, I believe," Mrs. Pockets said in a frightened and unsteady voice.
"The pub!" The vole's eyes brightened as he said it. "Yes, of course, the pub—The Silver...The Silver..."
"Claw," said Mr. Neversmythe, who had come to the front of the group and now stood beside the vole. Mr. Neversmythe's eyes met the eyes of Mrs. Pockets for a moment. But only for a moment before the bog lemming looked away.
"The Silver Claw, yes," the vole repeated. And then his manner changed again. He was all business, suddenly. "We'll take your boy with us as a kind of...guarantee, so to speak. If all is as you say, then we'll send him back to you straightaway—safe and sound as ever you please." He made to go and the room cleared quickly. The vole turned back to close the door and said, "For your boy's sake, then, mum, you'll be stayin' here, won't you? until we send him back to you all safe and sound, as I say." His awful grin came back suddenly. He gave a little bow and then closed the door quietly, leaving poor Mrs. Pockets alone with her worst fears.
Although it seemed like hours to Mrs. Pockets, it was actually only a little while later that someone knocked on her door. When she opened it, there before her, to her great joy, stood Mr. Merchanty Swift Who Brought The Cheese Trade Down To Earth Almost Single-handedly. And as soon as she saw him, Mrs. Pockets burst into tears.
The Brambles was at the far edge of Tottensea Burrows. Merchanty Swift often went out there to see after the Pocketses and to make sure they were all right. He would bring them things: food
or clothing, a toy for Farnaby, furniture for the boarding house—whatever he thought they might need. And on this night when all Tottensea packed up their things, he thought he'd better see to them, as well.
"Whatever is wrong, my dear?" he asked, touching her shoulder gently to comfort her as she wept.
"They've...they've taken Farnaby," said Mrs. Pockets trying her best to speak clearly between sobs.
"Who? Who's taken Farnaby?" asked Merchanty Swift as he stood away from her, indignant at the very idea of someone taking Farnaby Pockets away from his mother.
"Ruffians!" she said, still between her sobs. "Bad animals. Very bad, I think."
"When?"
"A little while ago."
"Do you know where they've taken him, dear?"
"I think so," Mrs. Pockets said, not sobbing quite so much, now. She wiped her eyes with the little handkerchief that she kept in her apron pocket and said, "I believe they've taken him...to The Silver Claw." And then she wiped her eyes again.
"The Silver Claw? And do you know why they've taken him there?"
"Yes," she said, feeling hopeful now that Merchanty Swift was there and asking questions. "I believe I do. They're looking for Mr. Pickerel's things, they said."
Merchanty Swift looked at the floor for a bit. He touched his mouth and said, "Yes. Of course. They think he kept treasure, there, you see." He looked at the floor some more. He was thinking. At last he said, "Very well. The Silver Claw, then. I'll go there at once. Please try not to worry, dear Mrs. Pockets. Farnaby is very brave. He'll be all right, I think. I will see about this."
The Linnet's Tale (A Mouse Story for Grownups) (The Tottensea Series) Page 11