Fine print at the bottom read FOR THEFT OF A MOTOR-CAR; FOR RECKLESS DRIVING; FOR ESCAPE FROM HER MAJESTY’S DUNGEONS BY IMPERSONATING A WASHERWOMAN; FOR GROSS IMPERTINENCE TO THE RURAL POLICE; FOR OTHER MISCELLANEOUS AND SUNDRY EXAMPLES OF UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR TOO NUMEROUS TO MENTION HERE.
Toad stopped in his tracks. He drew closer and peered at the poster with a curious eye. “Good heavens.” He frowned. “What a frightfully unattractive character. Just look at him. A member of the criminal classes if ever I saw one, with those bulbous eyes, those pendulous jowls, that low forehead. And no neck to speak of. I’d better keep a sharp watch out. I’d hate to cross paths with such a shocking villain as that.”
He edged around the village green and was just creeping past the stone church when the double doors suddenly burst open and the air was filled with splendid organ music. Majestic arpeggios spilled into the road, cascading one over another like a waterfall.59 Toad just had time to duck behind the hydrangeas before a merry bridal party emerged to the accompaniment of many cries of good wishes and many handsful of rice tossed into the air. The bride and groom stepped forth, resplendent in their wedding finery, followed by the parents of the happy couple.
There was something about the father of the groom that seemed direly familiar to Toad. Where had he seen that craggy forehead? What was there about those bushy eyebrows that struck terror in his heart? And the beaky nose, like the prow of a ship? Then it came to him. It was the Magistrate who had peered down on him from his bench and sentenced him to twenty years for assorted high crimes and misdemeanors.
Oh, most miserable of toads! Oh, unluckiest of creatures! If they caught him now, they’d fling him back into England’s grimmest dungeon and tack on another ten years for his audacious escape. He would languish there for the rest of his dreary days, growing ever paler and wanner, sleeping on a moldy pallet of damp straw, dining on prison fare of stale crusts and brackish water, one endless year piled upon another. He would never again set eyes on his beloved home, or share a picnic with the Rat on the sunny Riverbank, or indulge in a glass of sherry with the Mole before a crackling fire, or be lectured sternly by the Badger about his many alleged character flaws.
Toad yipped in fear and cowered beneath the bushes. Gone was the puffed-up vainglorious toad of a minute before, and in its place was a timorous, cowering beastie, prostrate in the dirt. He covered his eyes, expecting to be seized by the scruff at any moment.
The minutes passed. Oddly enough, the heavy hand of the law fell not upon his collar. Toad cautiously raised his head and looked about. By a stroke of good luck, the newly married couple, trailed by their celebrants, had turned left coming out of the church, instead of right, and had walked off the other way to the wedding breakfast.60
He got up and in short order convinced himself that he had, once again, made a narrow escape from the law due to his quick wits and plucky spirit.
“Why,” he said, “they’ll never get the best of Toad. They’ve tried and tried, but they haven’t got the best of Toad yet.”61
He darted behind the church and followed a footpath some distance, then spied a likely shortcut through a grand garden, almost as grand as his own at Toad Hall. He ducked past the maze and circled around a fountain and a small ornamental lake where a brace of serene swans floated by. He was tiptoeing through the grounds when he realized, to his horror, that voices were advancing upon him—he had stumbled into the tulips of the wedding breakfast. In terror, he cast about for a hiding place, but there was none; he was midway down a long expanse of lawn, empty save for several statues in the classical mode and an ornamental garden pond that would scarcely conceal a goldfish.
He was doomed.
And then, without warning or justification, a thunderbolt of uncharacteristic inspiration was delivered from the heavens into the thick skull of our subject. That is to say, Toad suddenly had a good idea. Still covered in fine gray dust from his disgraceful tantrum in the road, he spied an empty plinth near the pond.62 He leapt upon it and struck a pose and willed himself not to blink.
The Magistrate happened to be an art lover. He circulated leisurely around the garden and inspected the various pieces of statuary: a nymph pouring water from a jar, Poseidon rising from the waves, a deer poised to take flight. And, next to the pond, a toad.
The Magistrate examined it closely and said, “What a lifelike toad. Reminds me of that awful feller who stole that motor-car.”
“Most lifelike,” said the Magistrate’s wife, joining him. “We could find out the name of the sculptor and get one for our garden. Would you like that, dear?”
The Magistrate shuddered. “Gad, Lillian, bad enough that I had to look upon that hideous visage in court. No, no, my dear. I’m happy with our garden just the way it is.” The Magistrate and his lady wife linked arms and began to stroll away.
Toad, who had been savagely holding his breath, couldn’t believe his ears. Hideous? Hideous? Why, he was the handsomest toad in all of England, was he not? His own mirror confirmed this on a daily basis. Surely the Magistrate was mistaken. Yes, that had to be it; the daft old fool had confused him with some other toad.
“You silly old trout,” he muttered on his platform, “I ought to come down there and whack some sense into you.”
“What was that?” said the Magistrate, wheeling around. “I could swear I heard a voice.” He peered about suspiciously. “Sounded awfully like a voice I’ve heard before. Sounded like that awful Toad feller. I did tell you about him, didn’t I, Lillian? A hardened ruffian. An incorrigible rogue. Stole a motor-car and drove it recklessly to the public endangerment. One of the slimiest villains it was ever my misfortune to gaze upon in the dock.”
Slimy? Slimy? First warty from the Master, now slimy from the Magistrate? It was just too much. But through supreme effort of will, the statue bit its tongue and remained mute, as statues typically do.
The Magistrate’s wife said, “I hope you threw the book at him, my dear.”
“Oh, he got what he deserved. A creature foul and low, Lillian. Most foul and low.”
The statue remained motionless, again as statues usually do, bolstered by its memory of the ghastliest dungeon in all the land.
The Magistrate narrowed his eyes at the statue and said, “Hmm, that’s odd. I could have sworn the facial expression on this one was different a minute ago. It was most unappealing before, but now I’d say it looks … deranged. Looks like it’s about to bust a valve. Odd, that.”
His wife said, “Goodness, darling, I don’t know how you stand dealing with such riffraff all day long. It must be terribly hard on you, but never mind. Let’s have some more wedding cake, shall we?”
“An excellent idea.” They strolled off to the pavilion.
Toad released his long-pent-up breath with a great whoosh.
“Oh,” he gasped, “what have I ever done to deserve such shabby treatment? Am I not the most blameless of toads, the most reasonable of toads? Can I help it if people just carelessly leave their motor-cars lying about? Can I help it that I’m a toad who was bred for Speed? It’s just the way I was made, so why does the world persist in tormenting me? It’s most unfair.”63
He slipped beneath the hedge and considered his situation. If it hadn’t been for the news of Humphrey, he would still be ensconced in his comfortable chambers at college, discoursing on life, the universe, and everything, bestowing the gift of his staggering intellect on the world.
With a jolt, he realized he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to his nephew. He’d been so busy, first admiring his own cleverness and then feeling sorry for himself, that he hadn’t spared a single thought for the poor boy’s whereabouts or safety. Where was Humphrey now? Was he hungry? lonely? frightened? Who was looking after him, making sure he ate his porridge in the morning and got his afternoon tea? Perhaps he had been snatched by a gang of ruffians, not one of whom would bother to read him a bedtime story.64 Perhaps he had wandered off and fallen into quicksand. Were there not tornado
s and tidal waves? Crocodiles and pythons? What about measles? mumps? gumboils? The many possible fates lying in wait for a toad of Humphrey’s tender years were too awful to contemplate. Toad pulsed with alternating waves of fear for his nephew’s well-being and shame over his own self-centeredness.
After feeling contrite for a full three minutes (unprecedented in his case), he said, “Oh, buck up, Toady. You’re of no help to him like this. No, you’ve got to get home and find Ratty and Badger and Mole. They’ll know what to do. But first you require some sustenance, or you’ll never make it back.”
The wedding guests were departing the grounds, and the servants were cleaning up the remains of the party. Leftover food and drink lay practically at hand if Toad could just keep his wits about him. The footman and maid clearing one end of the pavilion were too busy flirting with each other and exchanging cheeky remarks to notice a short, rotund figure lurking beneath one of the tablecloths. Toad waited until they were roaring over some private joke, then, quick as a flash, he grabbed a half-empty bottle of Champagne, a wedge of cake, and a handful of finger sandwiches, and darted back to the safety of the hedge as fast as his feet would carry him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shocking Rudeness
In which negotiations go awry, and our heroes devise a plan of rescue.
The Mole convened in the library with Rat and Badger.
“I say we storm the Wild Wood with sticks and clubs and just take him back,” boomed Badger.
“But what if Humphrey gets hurt?” said Mole. “And what if all their clans have joined together? They’ll be too many for us to handle.”
“Then we’ll enlist the otters,” said Badger. “And I’m sure we could round up a few more Riverbankers if it came to that.”
Mole said, “But why did they snatch him? I know it’s the Chief Weasel’s birthday coming up, but maybe this is actually about something else. Perhaps they want Toad to pay a ransom. Perhaps they want us to pay a ransom.”
“But,” Badger pointed out, “there’s been no ransom note, and none of us has any money to speak of. At least, not anything like Toad’s money.”
“It’s true, I don’t have a lot of money,” said the Rat, before adding hesitantly, “although … I suppose my rowboat is worth something. I wonder if they’d take that in trade?” His brow creased in anxiety, for his tiny blue-and-white boat was dear to his heart, and even though he would gladly give it up to save Humphrey, parting with it would mean the end of messing about in boats. A wrenching blow indeed.
“Don’t worry, Ratty,” said Mole, hastening to reassure his friend. “I’m sure they’re not after your boat. It’s of no use to them in the middle of the Wild Wood.”
The Rat sighed a private sigh of relief.
“Where is Toad?” grumped Badger. “If he received the telegram, he should have been here days ago.”
“Do you think we should form a search party and go out looking for him?” said Mole.
“No,” said Badger, “it’s better that we don’t scatter. And who knows where he is? He could be anywhere. And remember, it’s not as if he’s the most useful animal to have around in a crisis. On the contrary, we’re probably better off without him.” The others nodded ruefully and gazed into the fire.
“I think,” said Mole eventually, “that we should try and talk with the Wild Wooders, or at least send them a letter and find out what’s behind this. Then we could negotiate for Humphrey’s release. What do you say?”
“I say we should go in there with sticks and whack ’em and show ’em what’s what,” said Badger.
“No,” said Rat, “Moly’s right. Let’s send them a letter. We need more intelligence. Then we can make a proper plan.”
Mole poked about and produced a fountain pen and some engraved stationery bearing the legend “Toad Hall” in fine script. “Rightio,” he said. “I’ll start off, but you two’ll have to help me. Hmm, let’s see, let’s see, how to start. Oh, I’ve got it. ‘Dear Chief Weasel.’ How’s that?”
“Better add ‘and Under-Stoat,’” said Ratty. “We don’t want to miff him. I hear he runs the show these days.”
A good hour later, Mole had finished composing the letter, and they all signed it.
Dear Mr. Chief Weasel and Mr. Under-Stoat,
We know you have Humphrey in your possession. Are you keeping him safe and sound? If you let him go now, we will forgive and forget. Kindly reply by next post.
Very truly yours,
The Mole, The Badger, The Water Rat
(PS—Please ensure that he brushes his teeth. Thank you.)
The reply came the following day, laboriously scrawled in thick pencil:
Nun of yor bleedin bizniss why we took him. As for forgiv and forget? Not likly. Badgir has a long memry.
Very turly yours,
Cheef Weasel and Under-Stoat
(PS—Of cors we see he brushs his teef. Do you take us for savidges?)
Badger seethed at this response. Mole picked up his pen and said, “Right, then. Let’s offer them a carrot.” He wrote,
Dear Chief Weasel and Under-Stoat,
Your letter received, and found to be not particularly helpful in providing insight into the current regrettable situation. Is it ransom that you want? We shall go to the bank and borrow five pounds. That should be more than enough to buy him back. We expect you to accept this extremely generous offer. It’s more than any of you deserve.
Very truly yours,
The Mole, The Badger, The Water Rat
Badger growled, “Why don’t we just promise ’em all a holiday in the south of France?” but nevertheless signed his name.
Came the reply:
Nun of you is worth fiv pouns and evrybody knows it. Be sides, it’s not mony we want, so there, Mister Smartee.
Very turly yours,
C W and U-S
Badger roared at the gross impertinence of this reply. The Rat seethed, and the Mole huffed, but nevertheless took up his pen again. “All right,” he said. “No more carrots. Now it’s time for the stick.”
Dear Chief Weasel and Under-Stoat,
Look, you bunch of louts, we’ve all had it with your rotten behavior, and we expect you to stop it immediately. Let Humphrey go right now, or we will make you regret it. We mean it.
Very truly yours,
Mole and Rat
(PS—Badger refuses to sign; you’ve made him that cross.)
Came the response:
Oooh, we are all shaken in our boots.
Very turly yours,
You know who
This time, the sheer rudeness of the letter caused even the normally placid Mole to dance about in apoplectic fury. “Well, that was certainly an exercise in futility,” he cried, “and it’s all my fault. I’m the idiot who suggested it. What a foolish animal I am!”
It was Badger’s turn to counsel cooler heads. “Now, Mole, calm down. We have in fact learned something of use. We have learned that they don’t want a ransom.”
“Then,” mulled the Rat, “d’you mean to say that all this uproar is just about fixing the balloon? It seems like a ridiculous amount of trouble for a birthday party.”
Badger said with a gleam in his eye, “I think I know what we need. I think we need … a spy.”
“A spy?” exclaimed Mole.
“But who?” said Rat.
“One of us,” said Badger, “in disguise.”
“Disguised as who? As what?”
“A tradesman of some sort,” said Badger. “Someone who comes and goes through the Wild Wood. Someone they’re used to seeing about. Possibly a tinker.”65
“A fruit-and-veg man,” the Rat chimed in.
“A washerwoman!” exclaimed Mole.
Badger looked at Mole approvingly. “An excellent idea, Mole, especially if Toad kept his old disguise. Now, if he did keep it, where would it be?”
“I bet I know,” said Rat. “There are trunks full of old clothes in the attic. He keeps them for puttin
g on entertainments.”
After a full hour of searching, they stumbled on a collection of dusty, cobwebbed trunks. There was no sign of Toad’s washerwoman disguise, but the trunks contained a rich treasure trove for playing dress-up: top hats, shabby frock coats, frayed satin gowns, buckled shoes and beaded reticules, even a collection of moth-eaten powdered wigs from another century. One chest contained a fine collection of artificial gems, clattering bracelets of indeterminate metal, chains of dubious gold, and long loops of faux pearls. Sneezing and choking, the three of them hauled their loot to the library.
“Goodness,” said Mole, “what an interesting—ra-HOO!—bunch of stuff. Where d’you suppose Toad got it?”
“Ancestors,” said the Rat, whose nose ran alarmingly.
Badger pulled an old dress and flowery fringed shawl from the trunk and held the items up for inspection. “This would do for a gypsy woman. The only question is, who is going to play her?”
They stared at one another. The idea, which had been so appealing in theory, presented itself in a different light now that the moment of decision had arrived.
“It’s a bit like belling the cat, isn’t it?” said Badger drily.66
Rat looked at the clothing and said, “Well, Badger, there’s not a chance of you fitting into any of this stuff, so I s’pose it’s got to be me or Moly.”
Mole gulped and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He hoped that neither of his friends noticed.
“And, Moly,” Rat continued, “since you had such a bad time of it in the Wild Wood before, I think it should be me that goes.”
The Mole gulped again, this time in gratitude.
“Besides,” said the Rat, “I’ve always wanted to play a gypsy. Me for the wild, wandering, Bohemian life! Perhaps I’ll even tell a fortune or two.”
“This is not a game,” said Badger, fixing the Rat with a piercing look. “This is a very serious business.”
“Ratty, promise me you’ll be careful,” said the anxious Mole.
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