by Paul Gallico
“Helicopter. Real crazy! I can’t understand what holds it up. The other thing at least has wings, even though they’re not my idea of wings. But that’s only an egg-beater. I don’t often come this way because it’s too dangerous for a bird. I had a friend once who was sucked into one of those jet engines and that was the end of him. But I wanted you to have a look-see.”
He wheeled again, dropping one wing steeply so that the wind caught them as they turned and sailed them away so swiftly that in a moment the great airport below had vanished. “We call this banking,” said Hawk. “It’s how you turn in the air. Well, I guess that’s about enough for your first hop. Is there any place you’d like to go where I can drop you? Were you going somewhere when I – ah – picked you up?”
“Oh, no,” said Manxmouse, “I really don’t mind. Anywhere will do.”
“Fine, then,” said Hawk. “We’ll get away from here, which is no place for a mouse anyway. I’ve a friend up near Pease Pottage I want to see and I’ll let you off there. There’s a film studio nearby, incidentally, which you might like to visit.”
They turned northwards and as Hawk began to circle, the ground came up to meet them and everything that had been tiny suddenly began to grow larger and assume its normal shape and size – houses, trees, cars and even people in the fields.
“I should have liked to have shown you a power dive,” Hawk said, “but you couldn’t have stood the g’s.”
“The g’s?” said Manxmouse.
“Oh, I forgot, you’re not a flyer,” Hawk said. “My speed plus the force of gravity at the pull-out. The pressure on your insides makes you feel sick.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you didn’t,” said Manxmouse.
Hawk’s voice changed again and he announced, “This is your Captain speaking. In a few moments we will be landing at Croftsley Farm by Pease Pottage. Fasten your seat belts and no smoking, please. Passengers will kindly keep their seats until the aircraft comes to a standstill. Please make sure that you have all your hand luggage. We hope you have enjoyed this flight.”
The field was now so close that Manxmouse could make out the blades of grass.
“Undercarriage down!” reported the Captain. There was a slight lift for an instant and then with hardly a jar they settled gently on to the ground.
Manxmouse dismounted as his pilot said, “There you are. Hope you liked the ride.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Manxmouse. “It was absolutely wonderful. I do thank you. It was most good of you.”
“No, no, no,” said Captain Hawk, “the pleasure was all on my side. Imagine my having given a blue mouse with no tail and rabbit ears his first flight! What a story I shall have to tell! Good luck, then, and goodbye!” And with that he took off.
Manxmouse heard the beating of his wings and almost before he knew it, Captain Hawk was a tiny diminishing dot in the sky until he vanished altogether.
Chapter Five
THE STORY OF THE GREAT BUMBLETON MOUSE HUNT
NOW MANXMOUSE WAS strolling along in the pleasant and well-tended, rolling farmland in which he had found himself deposited by Captain Hawk, reflecting upon his recent adventure and what a marvellous thing it was to fly. As he passed alongside the hedge that formed a boundary of a ploughed field, he heard a great hullabaloo in the distance. The wind carried to him the baying of hounds, and the rat-tat-tat of hooves. The sounds faded, grew louder and faded again and once Manxmouse, looking across the field to a wooded hill on the other side, saw red-and-black-coated riders streaming by to vanish behind a copse, in the last hunt of the season.
Manxmouse went marching on, still thinking his own thoughts. Suddenly he became aware of the clatter and view-halloo growing louder and louder. It appeared to be approaching.
He sat up to listen, turning his too large, but at this point quite useful, rabbit ears in the direction of the sound. Sure enough the thunder of the horses’ hooves was increasing and the winding of the horn, the yelping and baying of hounds, all were shattering the quiet of the peaceful countryside.
At this moment Manxmouse saw a flash of red and heard a crash in the undergrowth of the hedge just ahead of him, followed by heavy breathing. When he reached the spot he saw that it was a fox. It was lying on its side exhausted, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, its eyes miserable. As Manxmouse came up it was barely able to lift its head to have a look at him.
“That’s right!” he gasped. “Go ahead – laugh at me. I don’t blame you. I’ve had plenty of you chaps for breakfast, lunch and tea and now it’s your turn. They’ll be on me in a minute.”
The fox was one of the greatest enemies of mice, particularly their cousins in the field. Yet at this moment Manxmouse could only feel pity for this beautiful creature about to meet its end, as it lay there, its flanks heaving, its glassy eyes turned piteously upon him.
“But I don’t want to laugh,” Manxmouse said.
The sounds of the hunt drew closer. “I’ve had it,” said the fox. “I’ve not been well lately, or I’d have run the legs off those clots. Imagine me, Joe Reynard, being caught by the Bumbleton Hunt – the worst pack in the county! I wouldn’t care so much for my reputation, but it’s for my family. I’ve got a lot of kids.”
And now three fields away and bursting from a clump of trees, Manxmouse could see the hounds running and riders beginning to appear in their wake.
“The Bumbleton hounds!” said the fox in disgust. “Well, here’s the end of me! You’d better get away from this spot, young fellow, for it’s going to be a mess. They’re such shockers I doubt if they’ll even know how to finish me off properly.”
“Oh, dear,” said Manxmouse, “can’t I help you in some way? Isn’t there anything I could do?”
Joe Reynard was ready to grasp at any straw. He lifted his weary head. “Could you take them off me for just a moment, while I catch my breath? I’ve got a hidey-hole about a half mile from here and if I could get to it…”
“Oh, I’d try,” Manxmouse said, “but I wouldn’t know how. What should I do?”
The baying and yelping sounded louder and louder.
“Here,” said Joe Reynard, “take my handkerchief. It has my scent on it. Beat off in any old direction and keep going. There isn’t a brain cell working in the entire pack.”
He handed over the handkerchief. There was no more time for a further exchange. Manxmouse took it in his teeth, dived through the hedge and started running up the ploughed field in the direction from which all the hullabaloo was coming.
The hounds came streaming down another furrow, heading straight for the hedge, but when they reached there, General Hound, in command of the pack, held up his paw and shouted, “Hold it, boys! Stop everyone! There’s something wrong here!” The order was passed backwards from the Colonel Hound to Major Hound, to Captain Hound, to Lieutenant Hound, barked out loudly by Sergeant Hound, caught by Corporal Hound and finally reached the Privates.
“Hold it! Company halt! Some trouble up front.”
The General gave a sniff and said, “There’s a strong smell of fox right here, but then the scent suddenly goes off up there to the left. Do you make it that way, Colonel?”
General Hound was an old boy with a thousand wrinkles in his brow resulting from the state of confusion in which he usually found himself. Colonel Hound’s problem was that he was prone to hay fever that interfered with his sniffing and so he usually just agreed with what the General said. Major Hound was all spit and polish and so interested in his own appearance and keeping himself looking smart that he rarely if ever knew in which direction the fox had gone. The Captain and the Lieutenant didn’t like hunting and wanted to be house pets. The only one who was of any use was Sergeant Hound and his legs were beginning to give out.
All the hounds had now collected around the General who said, “If it’s old Joe Reynard, it would be just like him to pull some kind of trick.”
“Oh, it’s Joe all right,” said the Colonel. “By dose bay be blocked up, but I cau
ght a glips of hib back there in the woods. I’d dough hib anywhere.”
“Well, he won’t get away from use this time,” said the General. “Now, as to which way he went, what’s your opinion, Major?”
The Major was busy worrying a burr out of one of his long, lop ears. “Eh? What, what?” he said. “Yessir! I agree with you absolutely one hundred per cent!”
The Captain whispered to the Lieutenant, “Aw, I wish they’d call it off and let us go home.”
Sergeant Hound was barking orders to the Privates: “All right, you chaps! Spread out a bit and see what you can pick up.”
At this point Squire Ffuffer drew up with his Chief Huntsman Sprigg and the rest of the ladies and gentlemen on their horses.
The Squire was aptly named, for he was too fat to be sitting on a horse, if you were to ask the horse on which he was sitting. He fuffed when he got excited. He was excited now. “Fuff, fuff, fuff, what’s got into those beasts? What are they all milling about like that for? What’s up, Sprigg?”
The Huntsman who was as thin and pale with a long lean jaw as Squire Ffuffer was fat and red said, “I don’t know, sir. They seem to be confused.”
“Well then – fuff, fuff – deconfuse them. Do something!”
Sprigg called out, “Come on, General! Seek! Seek! Get in there, Colonel! Find, Major!”
The hounds paid no attention whatsoever.
“In my opinion,” the General was saying, “he’s gone and doubled back on us, up thataway.”
A very young Private who, as a matter of fact, had just been allowed to join the pack a week before, said, “I think he’s in there, under that hedge, sir.”
The General turned upon him furiously. “Quiet!” he shouted. “I’m the one here who’s paid to think. I say he’s gone away up to the left. All those in favour say ‘Aye’.”
There was a chorus of “Ayes” led by the Colonel.
The General shouted, “OK, then, boys! This way! Follow me!” and up he went, along the furrow behind Joe Reynard’s handkerchief Manxmouse was carrying, a good hundred yards up ahead of them now.
The Huntsman shouted a few words of encouragement, sounded his horn and, turning his steed, galloped after the hounds who were now baying happily once more as the scent of the handkerchief reached them. Behind came Squire Ffuffer bouncing up and down upon his horse and the rest of the Field.
Although Manxmouse had never taken part in a fox hunt, or what had now turned into a mouse hunt, before, of one thing he was certain. He had neither the length, the legs, the wind nor the stamina to outrun a pack of hounds, no matter how inept they might be. However, his only purpose was to gain a little time to allow Joe Reynard to recover sufficiently to reach his hidey-hole. And so, having got to the end of the furrow, he leaped over several ridges and ran down another in the direction from which he had come, passing the hunt in full cry on the way up.
Again at the edge of the field there had to be a halt and a consultation, until General hound came to a decision. By that time Manxmouse was already going up yet another parallel furrow the other way.
And now the amazed farmers, spectators, followers and travellers in cars who had halted by the roadside to watch, were treated to the astonishing spectacle of the Bumbleton Hunt riding up and down from one end of a ploughed field to the other.
However, as indeed was inevitable even though he had had a head start of a hundred yards or so, the pack began to gain on Manxmouse and soon they were all in the same line. Besides which Manxmouse was getting out of breath and so when he reached the end of the field by the hedge, he simply stopped running and sat down to await their arrival.
The breeze carried the strong scent of the handkerchief to the General who shouted, “Hurrah! Come on, boys! Follow me! We’ve got him now!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted his army behind him and went charging down the field only to be compelled to skid to a stop in a cloud of dirt as the General applied all four brakes and came to a grinding halt on his haunches.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” For with his brow contracted in several dozen more wrinkles than ever before, he found himself looking down upon such a creature as he had never before encountered. “Colonel, gentlemen and others, gather around. See what we’ve caught this time.”
All the hounds did so and soon were sitting about in a circle with Manxmouse in the centre. He had very cleverly hidden Joe Reynard’s handkerchief under a clod.
“I say,” said General Hound, “won’t the Hunt be proud when they see what we’ve turned up? Just look at it – it’ll make the Bumbleton pack famous all over the world.”
“Extraordinary!” snuffled the Colonel.
“Sensational!” said the Major, giving his whiskers a brush.
“Maybe now they’ll let us go home,” chorused the Captain and the Lieutenant.
The Sergeant said, “Attention, everyone! Three cheers for the General!”
The very young Private remarked, “What is it? A mole?”
“What’s that?” roared the General. “A mole… Ridiculous! The colour’s all wrong to begin with – it’s blue. Notice the hind legs. And those ears… I suppose the Huntsman will accuse us of having gone after a rabbit. But I do still get a very strong fox scent.”
He leaned over and put his nose down quite close and asked, “Just what are you supposed to be?”
“I’m a Manx Mouse.”
The General recoiled at the mouse part of the word and decided to ignore it. “Boys!” he called out. “You’re to be congratulated. We’ve caught a Manx!”
The Sergeant again called, “Three cheers for the General!”
Now the ladies and gentlemen of the Hunt, led by Squire Ffuffer and Huntsman Sprigg had still four ploughed furrows to go before they would catch up. But they heard the cheering and saw the hounds collected in a circle and Squire Ffuffer cried, “They’ve got him! We shall be in at the kill! Faster, everyone!”
The General continued to interrogate Manxmouse about where he came from; what kind of an animal he was; why his hindlegs looked like those of a kangaroo and his body like that of an opossum; and in particular, why there was such a strong scent of fox about him.
“Oh, as to that,” Manxmouse said, “that’s Joe Reynard’s handkerchief. He gave it to me to put you off. It wasn’t fair because he wasn’t feeling well. By now he’ll be safe in his hidey-hole.”
“He isn’t,” said the youngest Private. “He’s right over there, under the hedge. I heard someone laughing.”
“Shut up!” ordered the Sergeant. “Can’t you see the General’s talking?”
“His handkerchief!” the General said. “I say, that was jolly clever of him, and jolly clever of you, too. We haven’t had such a splendid chase as this in years. I don’t mind his getting off, particularly when I think how pleased the Squire will be when he sees you. Attention now, boys! Here they come.”
Everybody shouted, “Attention!” from the Colonel down to the Sergeant, with the exception of the Privates who had no one to shout to.
And indeed the horses were now coming galloping down from the bottom of the field with Squire Ffuffer in high fettle crying, “Yoiks! In at the kill! And you shall have his brush, Miss Blenkinsop.”
For it seems that the Squire, who was a widower, was rather sweet on Miss Blenkinsop, one of the young ladies of the Hunt.
“Oh!” said she. “Do you really mean it? It will be my first one.”
“And well deserved, my dear,” replied the Squire, and with his elbows joggling and his seat bouncing up and down on his poor horse, he gave full rein to where his pack at last had run something to ground.
As he approached, Sergeant Hound gave a command: “Attention! Divide! Hup… one… two!”
The pack of Privates neatly split in two to make a line opening up to where General Hound proudly stood alongside Manxmouse. As the Squire rode up, he saluted smartly and said, “Ah there, Squire, welcome! And may I be the first to congratulate you on this very special da
y! We’ve caught you a Manx.”
The Squire reined in so sharply that Miss Blenkinsop almost ran into him. “You’ve caught a what?” he cried.
“A Manx, sir.”
At this Miss Blenkinsop, who had had a good look, screamed, “Why, it’s nothing but a mouse! And a horrid one, too!”
“Fuff, fuff, fuff,” the Squire fuffed. “Do you mean to say that I and the Bumbleton Hunt have been riding up and down these blinking furrows all morning chasing a mouse?”
“But he’s a most extraordinary one,” said the General, “isn’t he, Colonel?”
“Bost extraordinary,” agreed the Colonel, whose nose was now entirely blocked up.
“Why, look at him! Did you ever see a mouse with ears like a rabbit, feet like a kangaroo, and blue all over? Besides which, he’s done the most extraordinary things. He’s had a flight over London with Captain Hawk; met a Clutterbumph and seems to belong to someone or something called Manx Cat. Most amazing story, what, Colonel?”
“Bost.”
Miss Blenkinsop suddenly burst into tears. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “and you promised me my first brush!”
In an absolute fury, Squire Ffuffer fuffed, “And by Jimmy, you shall have it! Huntsman Sprigg, cut off the tail of whatever it is.”
Miss Blekinsop screamed again and then said, “I don’t want his nasty old tail!”
“Fuff, fuff! Cut it off, I say! We’ll have something to show for this day.”
Huntsman Sprigg dismounted, drew his knife and marched over to Manxmouse. “Turn around,” he said.
Manxmouse did so.
“Sir,” Sprigg reported, “I’m afraid it hasn’t got a tail.”
“There you are!” said the General, “Aren’t you pleased? He’s a genuine Manx.”
The young Private said, “There’s Joe now. I can see him, under the hedge. He’s rolling on the ground, holding his sides. Look!”
“Pipe down!” barked the Sergeant. “Who wants an old fox when we’ve captured something like this for the Squire? We’ll all get double rations tonight.”
But the Squire was not all that pleased. In fact he was furious and it took him three minutes of pure fuffing before he could get the words out. “You idiots! You imbeciles! You dimwits! Can’t you see that you’ve made fools of me and the Bumbleton Hunt? We shall never live this down! I order this hunt called off.” He jumped the hedge and galloped off.