Toad and Sammy ducked behind a barrel in the corner of the yard. And such was Toad’s mania that for one deluded second he convinced himself that the couples were headed for the cabbage truck and not the stylish motor-car, for surely the car was Toad’s by right of sheer covetousness. Was it not?71 His spirits plummeted as he watched the husbands hand their wives into the dashing motor-car and drive off in high spirits.
“What a sight,” he moaned. “I’ve not seen that particular model before, but I’ll have to order three or four as soon as we get home. I wonder what colors it comes in?”
Beside him, Sammy breathed a sigh of relief at his narrow miss of aiding and abetting felony theft. (Windfall apples were one thing; motor-cars, another.) “It’s all right, Mr. Toad, we can walk. I’m used to walking.”
Toad made no answer. His beady eyes were trained on the ragged truck; his brain was busy calculating whether the cost to his feet of two days’ walk was or was not outweighed by the ignominy of arriving home in a cabbage truck. He could just imagine what the squirrels and rabbits would have to say about that. He might never live it down. But before he could make up his mind, an elderly farmer emerged from the pub and claimed the truck as his own.
“Drat,” said Toad. “We should have made a run at that truck while we had the chance. Now I s’pose we’ll just have to walk.”
They headed out of the yard and passed a shed, in the depths of which they saw a decrepit bicycle propped against the wall.
“Perhaps,” said Toad, “perhaps…”
They ducked into the shed and looked at the machine. It was of a type no longer made, a velocipede, heavy and primitive with chipped black paint and a rusty chain. Amazingly enough, the tires looked sound and were, on closer inspection, full of air.
A moment later, they were on their way, Toad’s feet barely reaching the pedals, Sammy perched in the basket, the wind ruffling his fur.
* * *
Over the next four hours, Toad worked harder than he’d ever worked in his soft, pampered life. Sammy couldn’t reach the pedals at all, so the burden of their transport fell entirely on Toad’s shoulders or, rather, his legs. He pedaled and pedaled until they at last came to Toadsworth, beyond which lay the River.
Toad puffed and pedaled his way along the cobblestone streets, which juddered Sammy up and down fearfully, almost causing him to pitch off. A passing squirrel hailed them with, “So you’re back, Toady. But, my word, haven’t you come down in the world! From motor-cars and airships to this.”
“None of your cheek,” puffed Toad. “There’s no finer form of transportation than a good old-fashioned bicycle. Good for the lungs, good for the figger. Keeps one svelte.”
“Is that right?” retorted the squirrel. “So hard to tell in your case. And a weasel for a figurehead, too. Is that a new fad at Cambridge?”
“Don’t you mind him,” Toad panted to Sammy, gamely plugging on. “Everyone knows squirrels are common. No”—puff—“manners”—puff—“to speak of.”
Sammy, holding on for dear life, could only answer, “Right-ite-ite, sir-ir-ir.”
The exhausted Toad smelled the River. With renewed energy, he made the final push and caught sight of his magnificent ancestral lands and imposing stately home. The many days of fear and exhaustion and hunger came to a head, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears. The front door opened, and the butler ran out, shouting irritably and waving them off. “You, there! The tradesmen’s entrance is around the back.”
Toad halted the bicycle, and Sammy hopped off. The butler stared in amazement and said, “Oh, sir, it’s you! Welcome home. Please forgive me for not—”
Despite his fatigue, Toad gestured magnanimously and said, “Dinner for two, immediately. And hot baths all around, I think. And prepare a room for my guest Sammy.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the butler. “Right away, sir. Mr. Mole and Mr. Badger and Mr. Rat are in the library. Shall I advise them of your return?”
But there was no answer, for Toad, on hearing these words, had rushed to the library door and thrown it open, reuniting with his friends to shouts of wonder and relief all around.
* * *
After Toad had eaten and bathed and rested from his strenuous exertions, and made sure that his young guide had been well looked after and tucked into bed by the housekeeper, Toad sat up with his friends. He listened anxiously to Ratty’s description of Humphrey’s plight.
He said, “You’re sure that he’s unharmed? His mother will make mincemeat out of me. It’s considered poor form to allow a nephew to be kidnapped when he’s left in your care.” He paused and thought about this. “But, then,” he said, “how on earth was I to know he’d be grabbed by the stoats and weasels? No one could have seen that coming. So I’m hardly to blame, after all.” He lit a cigar and proceeded to regale his friends with the long and winding tale of some of his recent adventures: about outsmarting the Magistrate, one of the great legal minds of the land; about snaffling sandwiches and wedding cake; about appropriating a bicycle and soldiering on in the face of stupendous adversity; about—
Badger raised a paw. “Hold up just a minute. D’you mean to say you stole a bicycle?”
Toad squirmed. “I didn’t, well, steal it per se.72 It was just … carelessly left lying about … by someone. I just happened to—”
“By someone, you mean the rightful owner?” queried Badger severely.
“Toady,” said the shocked Mole, “you didn’t steal a bicycle. Did you?”
“Oh, all right,” burst out Toad. “But I had to. You don’t understand the dire straits I was in. No food, no money, no motor-car to carry me home. I tell you, Fate has never dealt me a wickeder hand. I’ve had such a hard time of it.” A small tear of self-pity trickled down his cheek.
Mole, who couldn’t bear to see any of his friends in distress, patted Toad’s paw and said, “There, there, Toady. Perhaps we’re being too hard on you.”
“Nonsense,” boomed Badger. “Toad, you shall find the rightful owner and return the bicycle immediately. And you shall pay him a shilling for its use.”
Toad shot up in outrage. “I say! How terribly unfair!”
“Consider it a rental fee,” said Badger. “And consider yourself lucky that the Law isn’t after you for bicycle theft.”
Toad paled. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re absolutely right, as usual, Badger. I’ll see to it immediately. Anonymously, of course.” He peered at Badger timidly. “If that’s all right?”
“That’ll do, Toad,” said Badger. “That’ll do. We’re glad you’re home, but that’s quite enough about you. It’s time to decide what to do about Humphrey. Ratty, you’re being awfully quiet. What do you have to say about all this?”
The Rat, who had only been half listening, said, “Badger, I defer to your judgment in this matter.”
Mole looked at him curiously and said, “Ratty, you haven’t seemed quite yourself since your day in the Wild Wood.”
The Rat avoided his gaze and said, “Hmm. I s’pose not.”
“Never mind,” said Mole. “No doubt it’s the stress of your perilous adventure.” He paused expectantly and studied his friend, giving him a chance to speak. “Isn’t it?”
“Er,” mumbled the Rat, “that’s right. I say, I’m feeling a bit peckish.73 Anyone else for a bite of something?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Humphrey’s Travails
In which Humphrey bears up under hardship and receives an unexpected message and succor, along with raisin toast.
Humphrey sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.74 It was just before sunrise, and soon they’d be coming to roust him from his hollow in the base of a tree. Then they’d feed him his breakfast of stacks of hot buttered raisin toast, as much as he could eat. (He couldn’t complain about this; it was the one pleasant thing about his captivity.) Following this would be another long day of patching and splicing under the constant supervision of the Under-Stoat’s handpicked guards, who w
ouldn’t let him out of their sight for a second.
Humphrey pulled his rough woolen blanket over his head. He thought about his mother in Italy and wondered if they’d somehow got word to her about his imprisonment. He rather hoped they hadn’t, for there was nothing she could do about it except fret herself to the bone. He thought about Toad and wished more than anything that he could join his uncle at Cambridge, working as his lab assistant and helping to solve the mysteries of the universe. He thought about the gentle Mole and the stalwart Badger, and he thought about the daring, audacious Rat, which prompted him to burst into tears, for he—Humphrey—had given the game away and placed the Rat in terrible danger through his own careless words. For this he would never forgive himself. Had Ratty made it to safety? He must have, for the Chief Weasel and Under-Stoat had returned to camp in an unspeakably foul mood, with no Rat yoked between them. But still.
“Hoy, you,” said a harsh voice. “Time to get up.”
Beneath his blanket, Humphrey wiped his eyes. It was important to him that they not see him cry.
Plucky little fellow!
“Have a wash and don’t forget to brush your teef. But hurry up. We’re on the march.”
Humphrey obeyed and wondered, not for the first time, why his captors always seemed to be nagging him about brushing his teeth. He emerged from his tree into the clearing where a hectic swirl of preparations was taking place.
“No time for breakfast,” said the Under-Stoat. “We’re moving. Such a bovver.75 That gypsy—I mean the Water Rat—had a compass. I tried to tell the Chief that she—I mean he—didn’t seem just right, but would he listen to his second-in-command? No. He would not.” The Under-Stoat snorted, but not loud enough for the Chief to hear. “So now we’ve got to pick up and move. Such a bovver. And I’ve got to get forwarding addresses to the baker and the newspaper boy and the fruit-and-veg man. Oh, look out. Here comes the baker. Get back in your hole.”
Humphrey disappeared into his hole just as Matilda emerged on the other side of the clearing.
“Good morning, Under-Stoat,” she greeted him. “I have your order here and your bill.” She looked about her and said, “Heavens, everyone’s in such a tizzy. Are you moving camp?”
The Under-Stoat studied her and said churlishly, “Wot d’you need to know for?”
The baker replied sweetly, “Where am I to deliver the bread? And don’t forget the Chief Weasel’s birthday cake. He’s ordered the biggest cake on record.”
“Oh. Ri’,” replied the Under-Stoat. “Yeah. We’re moving to our winter quarters.”
“It seems awfully early for that,” she said. “Why, there’s only the first hint of autumn in the air.”
“It’s just temporary, mind.”
“Very well,” she replied, and then presented a bill for the Under-Stoat to sign with his mark, a big, wavering X. Once she had left the clearing, Humphrey was ordered out of his hole again and made to supervise the packing of the balloon in the gardener’s second-best wheelbarrow.
Before they set off, he was blindfolded. Digby, who had been placed in charge of him, led him by the sleeve and quizzed him the whole way about Toad Hall, prattling on about its many fascinating modern conveniences and appurtenances. Hot water straight from the tap? Never! A patch of lawn just for croquet? Garn!76
A half hour later, they arrived at their destination, and Humphrey’s blindfold was removed. He blinked in the light. He was standing before a stout, wooden door with no welcome mat or bell, set inconspicuously in the roots of a giant elm and partly concealed by a tangle of bracken. The door opened with a sharp creak, and the Chief Weasel led the way as the others followed single-file. Humphrey, whose eyes, unlike his captors’, were not especially suited to the dark, stumbled along a dark passage with the press of earthen walls on either side. Down and down they went until finally they came to a halt where the faintest of cool breezes blew across his skin. He pulled his cardigan tighter.
They entered a vast hall carved out of the earth, dimly lit by a distant shaft of sunlight. Humphrey gasped at the size of it, the vaulted ceiling so high above him that its farthest corners remained shrouded in shadow. Enormous stone pillars and arches supported the great space; the floor was made of large blocks of quarried stone, tilted and broken in places by thick, gnarled knuckles of ancient roots.
“Digby,” he said in wonder, “what is this place?”
“Wot, this?” Digby looked around as if he’d never noticed it before. “It’s just where we spend the winter. The elders say it used to be a city of men, invaders from across the sea, hundreds and hundreds of seasons ago, but I wouldn’t know anyfing about it. You say that everyone at Toad Hall gets his own featherbed? All to himself?”
The weasels set rushlights in brackets the length of the hall; wavering flames revealed patchy expanses of scabby plaster covered with painted figures, now much faded. Humphrey drew closer and saw that the figures were those of dark-haired men and women wearing, for some odd reason, bedsheets. The men wore short armor and carried swords. There were harvest scenes and scenes of celebration. There were horses and sheep and cattle, and a hunched black-and-white shape much disfigured by time that could have been a sheepdog (or possibly a badger, if one squinted and tilted one’s head to the side). He stepped closer to a spot where the paint seemed brighter and tentatively rubbed it with his sleeve. The dust of eons fell away, and he realized he was looking not at painted plaster, but at a mosaic composed of hundreds of tiny tiles, their colors still vibrant, all painstakingly butted together to form the portrait of a man. The man wore a white sheet draped over one shoulder; a coronet of golden leaves sat on his dark curly hair. Humphrey was trying to make sense of this when the Under-Stoat called out, “Hoy! As soon as you can see fit to drag yourself away, young sir, there’s a job waitin’ for you over ’ere.” Humphrey resolved to make further study of the remarkable murals just as soon as he could.
Despite being fatigued, he slept poorly that night, his dreams filled with strange images of an ancient civilization where men wore sheets and crowns of laurel leaves.
* * *
The next morning, there was a general slackening of Humphrey’s supervision. The passageway was patrolled by a couple of hard-case weasels, and since there was nowhere else for him to go, he was allowed to work without being chained up, with only the occasional perfunctory glance in his direction. Thus, when the baker made her rounds, no one paid any attention to him and no one demanded he hide himself. He was sitting at the kitchen table and eating his usual breakfast of buttered raisin toast when she arrived with her basket. She started in surprise when she saw him and then deliberately looked away. No one noticed that, either. Humming, she slowly unpacked her ambrosial goods.
The Under-Stoat came in. “Here’s the bill for your signature, Under-Stoat,” she said sweetly.
“Exorbitant as usual,” he said, scrawling his mark. In response, Matilda offered him a cinnamon bun, saying, “I’ve got a few left over today. Would you like one?”
“Wot’s the charge, then?”
“It’s gratis.”
“Wot?” he said suspiciously.
“There’s no charge. It’s free, to help you keep your strength up. I know how hard you work, how much responsibility you have.”
The Under-Stoat snatched the bun from her and crammed it indelicately into his mouth. While he chewed and smacked in loud pleasure, the baker turned to Humphrey and said, “I have another one left over.” She reached across the table and placed the bun on his plate.
Despondently, he said, “Thank you,” for unlike some creatures we could mention, he tried to be an animal of good manners.
Pretending to repack her basket, she bent low and stared into his face with an arresting wide-eyed gaze. He looked at her quizzically. Then, when she saw that she had his full attention, she gave him a slow, intense … wink.
Now, there are winks, and there are winks, and this one was not just any old wink, but a wink laden with meaning. A
significant wink, clearly meant to telegraph information from the winker to the winkee, whose thoughts upon receiving it raced and ricocheted in confusion. Humphrey raised his eyebrows at her in hopes of receiving clarification, but there was only time for her to give him a barely perceptible nod before turning away to gather up her things and bid everyone good day.
Humphrey sat, electrified. He knew he’d been delivered a message, but what did it mean? What—specifically—did it mean? He turned the puzzle over and over in his mind, inspecting it from this way and that. After a few minutes, he decided it didn’t matter that he couldn’t discern its specific contents. The important thing was that she’d told him to take heart. She’d told him to have hope. That, in some remote location, plans were being hatched in his favor; forces were plotting his rescue. And all he had to do was watch and wait. Keep his wits about him, and watch and wait.
He studied his plate and allowed himself the smallest of smiles at his bun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Plotting and Planning
In which a plot is proposed by an unexpected conspirator, and possibly derailed by an unexpected spy.
Plans for Humphrey’s rescue were indeed being hatched at Toad Hall by our own four friends, but at a somewhat-slower-than-hoped-for pace. They sat in the conservatory and mulled over their next step.77
“I’m sure they’ll have moved him by now,” said Ratty. “How are we going to find him?”
“It’s simple,” declared Toad. “I will apply my massive intelligence to suss out his location. Although,” he added, “my mind has been working in strange ways lately. My pressing interest in the Great Big Questions seems to have evaporated, which I don’t understand at all. But I’m sure that I can muster up more than enough brainpower to calculate the best way of bringing my dear nephew home. Hmmm, let’s see.” He stared at the ceiling as if the answer might lie there. “Hmmm,” he said again. There was no sound but the ticking of the mantel clock; the seconds stretched into several long minutes before Toad came out with his next profound statement, which went like this: “Hmmm.”
Return to the Willows Page 13