Rat and Mole and Badger exchanged puzzled glances.
Finally, Toad said, “I’m having trouble concentrating these days. I haven’t been myself since I got beaned with that cricket ball.”
“Since you what?” said Ratty.
“I got hit on the head with a cricket ball during what turned out to be my last day as the Lumbagian Professor. Frightfully bad luck, what? Now that I think about it, it happened during my last few minutes, mere moments before the Master relieved me of my duties. He behaved frightfully. You’d think a man of his stature would have more compassion for the gravely injured.”
“Ah,” said Rat, nodding slowly. “Perhaps that explains it.”
“Explains what?” said Toad.
By then it was apparent to them that the Poffenbargered Toad had been banished forever—de-Poffenbargered, if you will—and that the dim, familiar Toad of old had slipped back into his rightful place.
“Just when we need the extra brainpower,” muttered Badger.
“Explains what?” said Toad.
“Never you mind, Toady,” soothed Mole. “You’re back among friends where you belong. Now, how will we ever locate Humphrey?”
Came a feminine voice in reply: “I know exactly where he is. And I know how to get him back.”
They looked up. The voice belonged to Matilda Rat, who stood silhouetted in the garden doorway with her now-empty basket over her arm.
Our heroes, momentarily nonplussed, stared at her. Toad leapt to his feet and pulled out a chair, prattling on about would she take tea, and did she take milk or sugar or lemon, and would she please sit here in this chair as it had the nicest view of the garden and the comfiest cushion. Badger made a small, courtly bow. The Rat affixed his gaze on his feet as if they had suddenly turned into objects of extreme fascination. Only his closest friend could have seen that his shy demeanor concealed a joyful heart. His closest friend, the Mole, did see this, and his own heart inexplicably sank.
Once Matilda had been ensconced in the best chair and supplied with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, Badger called the meeting back to order. “You’ve seen Humphrey?” he said.
“Is he all right?” broke in an anxious Toad.
“I saw him just this morning,” she replied. “And he seems perfectly fit. Somewhat despondent, perhaps, but otherwise healthy and well fed.”
Toad sighed in relief at the news. “Thank goodness! His mother would knock my block off if he came to any harm.”
While Matilda told her tale of her visit to the winter quarters, the Rat studiously avoided looking at her, and the Mole studiously avoided looking at the Rat. Badger studied them keenly in turn. Only Toad seemed oblivious to the electric current that ran between them.
At the end of her report, Toad moaned, “What’ll we do? We’ll never get him out of there.”
“Ah, but we will,” said Matilda. “There’s something more you need to know. It’s the Chief Weasel’s birthday in two more days, and he’s going to have a huge party. He’s determined to take a flight in the balloon to celebrate—that’s why they’re working Humphrey so hard. And the Chief’s ordered the biggest birthday cake known to man. In fact, I should be at the bakery starting on it now, it’ll take me that long to finish. I’ve given this all a good deal of thought,” she said, putting down her teacup, “and I’ve come up with a plan.”
At this tantalizing news, everyone edged his chair closer and leaned in. Even the Rat finally lifted his gaze and listened intently.
* * *
Upstairs, the small, bedraggled weasel known as Sammy sat on the bed in the guest room he’d been assigned and looked about him in wonder at the opulent splendor of the furnishings. What would his mam give for a length of the brocade bedspread or a yard or two of the silky fringe hanging from the curtains? She’d probably swoon in delight. Maybe he could snag a bit of it for her. Just a short bit so’s no one would notice.
No sooner had this thought popped into Sammy’s head than he was overcome with shame. Mr. Toad had been good to him, had given him half a crown and a pat on the head and a soft bed to sleep in and as many slices of lemon cake as he could hold. No, nicking a bit of tassel was no way to repay such a generous host. Sammy stared out the window at the kitchen garden and watched his old nemesis, Cook, gather her vegetables for the next meal. But this was not entertainment enough for a restless young weasel, and he soon cast about for something to do.
By the bedside there was a thick book, which he opened without much hope, for he knew that thick books generally contained large amounts of dense print and few, if any, pictures, and Sammy had not yet reached that point in life where he could appreciate such a volume. He examined the cover: there was a boy, curiously unclothed, surrounded by a bear, a panther, and a wolf. But instead of looking afraid of these fearsome animals, as any sensible boy would, this particular boy lounged against the great bear’s furry flank. Sammy shuddered and put the book away. He went to the door and peered along the long hall. There was no one in sight. He slipped next door into Humphrey’s room and looked about. There was the tin box of powder, covered all over in warnings. There were the glass beakers and test tubes and flasks. And there was the kite they’d built and launched together, the newspaper now yellowed, the paste now cracked. Sammy backed out of the room, his small, bedraggled heart in turmoil about the part he’d played in Humphrey’s imprisonment. He trotted silently down the grand staircase and found the butler, who informed him in very superior tones, “Mr. Toad is in the conservatory with guests.” The butler added with a pinched expression (for he was one of those types dead set against weasels in the house), “And I’m sure he does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Rightio, guvna,” said Sammy.78 “I’ll just have a stroll around the garden.” He sauntered outside and, as soon as he was hidden from the butler’s frowning gaze, scampered around the wing of the house until he reached the open door of the conservatory, whence issued the inviting sound of tinkling teaspoons and the light clash of crockery. He considered inviting himself in to share whatever bounty the tea tray might yield, but then he heard a deep, resonant voice that could only be that of Mr. Badger, sounding very grim. Sammy flattened himself in the flower bed, for there was no more serious voice in the world than that of Mr. Badger speaking seriously. The words sounded like “winter quarters.” And then Mr. Rat said something like “heavily guarded…” Then Mr. Mole said something that sounded like “but how can we…” And Mr. Toad said “use my brainpower…”
A moment later, Sammy heard a voice unknown to him, higher and lighter than the others, but calm and determined. Who could that possibly be? He crept closer. The voice said the words “birthday cake…”
Sammy pricked up his ears, for not only is a youngster naturally interested in all matters connected to birthday parties in general (and birthday cake in particular), it suddenly occurred to him that they were discussing the Chief Weasel. He slithered on his belly to the open door.79
Badger said, “It’s sheer genius, Miss Matilda. My hat’s off to you.”
The feminine voice said, “Thank you, Mr. Badger. I’ll need an extra pair of hands to help me make it large enough. Who will volunteer?”
The Rat said, “I will,” before anyone else had a chance to speak.
There was a significant pause in the conversation. Sammy, whose curiosity was devouring him, raised his head and peered around the thick leaves of a banana tree. And found himself staring directly into the eyes of Mr. Toad, who was staring directly back at him.
“Eep,” said Toad in surprise.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mole.
“I say, there’s Sammy at the door,” said Toad faintly.
They turned in time to see the small head duck below the shrubbery.
“Why, hullo, young Sammy,” said the Water Rat. “What are you doing there?”
Caught, Sammy emerged, red with embarrassment. He saw that the female speaker was a lady rat; she looked familiar somehow, but he couldn
’t think why. Of more pressing concern were the others, who were inspecting him with expressions ranging from concern to animosity. His eyes darted from one to the other, trying to gauge exactly how much trouble he was in. Unfortunately, this only made him look furtive and shifty.
Badger, he of the severest expression, rumbled, “Peeking around corners, that’s what he’s doing. Spying, that’s what he’s doing.”
“Now, Badger,” said Mole. “I’m sure there’s some other explanation. Isn’t there, Sammy?”
Sammy stuttered, “I was just … I was just—”
Badger said, “Peeking and spying.” He turned to Toad and muttered quietly, “Go and get him. Who knows what he overheard?”
Toad got up casually and sauntered to the door. “Sammy, come in and sit down.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Toad.” Sammy backed away across the lawn.
“Be a good boy and come and join us.”
“No, no, really, that’s all right.” Sammy backed away faster.
Toad broke into a trot and called out cheerily, “There’s chocolate biscuits.”
Sammy turned and also broke into a trot, calling politely over his shoulder, “That’s nice.”
“You could have some,” puffed Toad, slowing to a walk.
“Really, it’s all right,” said Sammy, also slowing to a walk, but being careful to maintain a healthy distance between them.
Toad broke into a trot again, and so did Sammy.
Toad wheezed, “Why are you running away?”
“I’m not running away. Why are you chasing me?”
“I’m not chasing you. Now, stop running away. Come back and have some lemonade.”
“Thanks, Mr. Toad, not really thirsty.”
The Rat and Mole and Badger emerged from the conservatory and looked as if they were about to join in the stuttering procession, at which point Sammy wisely weighed his options, which included facing the possible wrath of the Badger. Not liking that particular option at all, he took off like a shot for the trees, a blurred streak of grayish-brownish fur.
Who knew a small, bedraggled weasel could run so fast?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Trojan Cake
In which Matilda’s ingenious plan unfolds (and in which there are a few mushy bits, but not too bad).
The intrepid Matilda temporarily moved her bakery to the kitchens of Toad Hall to avail herself of the cavernous oven built a century before to accommodate a whole roast ox. For the next two days, our heroes busied themselves with secret preparations. The Rat in particular slaved away under Matilda’s direction, mixing huge vats of butter and dozens of eggs with a paddle and sifting veritable mountains of flour until he was quite covered with the stuff, leaving him looking like a ghost. He lifted and carried, he sieved and stirred, but instead of being exhausted and miserable, he was exhausted and exhilarated; he pitched into bed at night with a wide smile on his face.
Mole and Badger conferred in a corner of the library, pored over dusty maps of the various trails and tunnels known to lead in and out of the Wild Wood, and debated the merits of alternate routes of attack and escape. They debated whether Sammy had recognized Matilda, and whether or not there was anything they could do about it.
Toad rounded up pistols and stout sticks and ancient swords for each of them. He stumbled on a stray collection of various pieces of pitted, ancestral armor in one of the storerooms and hauled it downstairs to the library, intent on assembling a suit of armor for each of them.
“Look, you chaps,” he said, holding up a sixteenth-century shield and seventeenth-century gauntlets. “I think we’ll have to mix the centuries to fit us all. It’s generally not done, not being historically correct and all, but you fellows won’t mind, will you?”
“Toad,” said Badger, “I’m not wearing armor, and that’s that.”
“But, Badger, whyever not?” Toad buckled himself into a heavy iron cuirass to protect the chest, followed by heavy iron greaves to protect the legs, followed by a heavy iron helmet with a visor that squeaked when he lowered it.
All followed by Toad falling facedown on the floor with a resounding crash.
“That’s why not,” said Badger.
With great effort, Toad managed to roll over on his back, where he lay squirming and thrashing like a large metallic beetle. “Uh,” he said, “I say, you two … I … uh … can’t get up.”
“Exactly,” said Badger.
Mole took pity on Toad and helped the clanking creature to his feet. “Perhaps Badger’s right,” he said. “We probably don’t need armor.”
“Oh, all right,” pouted Toad. Always the mercurial animal, he suddenly brightened and said, “What about horses? And cannon? Can’t we have horses and cannon?”
Mole said, “I don’t think we need those, either. Especially since we’re embarking on a campaign of stealth and secrecy. No, no, they’d hear us coming from miles away. Er, why don’t you go down to the kitchen and see if Ratty and Matilda need a hand?”
“I did,” said Toad. “They told me to come up here and see if you and Badger need a hand.”
“Ah. I see.”
The wonderful fragrance of baking cake wafted into the room. Toad sniffed deeply and said, “Smells like they’re well under way. I wonder if Miss Matilda will let me lick the spoon?” He wandered back down to the kitchen and found Matilda and Ratty struggling to extract a huge golden cake from the giant oven.
“Good heavens,” said Toad. “I had no idea it would be that size.”
Matilda mopped her brow with her kerchief and said, “And this is only the first layer. It’s going to be three layers tall once I”—she glanced at Ratty—“that is, we finish making it. The Chief said he wanted the biggest cake on record, and he’s going to get it.”
“It’s going to be big, all right,” said Ratty, beaming at her.
“And full of surprises,” added Matilda. “Shocking surprises.”
Ratty said, “Three shocking surprises, in fact.”
A trifle nervously, Toad asked, “You, er, will be making plenty of air holes, right, Miss Matilda?”
“Of course, Mr. Toad. Don’t you worry about that. It wouldn’t do to smuggle you in half smothered. You’ll need to be in tip-top condition when you arrive.”
“I still wish I could talk you out of coming, Matilda,” said Ratty, gnawing his lip.
“Nonsense,” she said, patting his paw and looking at him fondly. “I know you mean well, Ratty, but I’m the only one who knows the way. And I’m the only one who can get you in. Let’s have no more talk about it. Now, I need three more pounds of butter, and there’s none left in the larder. Will you run to the shop for me?”
It’s a good thing the Mole wasn’t there to see it, for the Rat leapt to his task so enthusiastically you’d have thought there was no higher meaning and purpose in life than to run to the shop for three pounds of butter.
* * *
At sunrise the next morning, our team gathered in the kitchen to assemble the enormous cake, almost three weasels high. Matilda cunningly excavated each layer with a long, sharp knife before they stacked the layers one atop the other. She then took a large wooden spatula, practically the size of an oar, and slathered a thick layer of white icing over the entire cake. Finally, she took a thin rod and poked several small air holes in each layer.
“There,” she said, “that should be adequate for your needs. And by the time I’ve finished with the icing, you won’t be able to spot the holes.” She filled her piping bag with pink icing from a barrel. “Come back in an hour,” she said. “And don’t forget to bring a stepladder.”
The team of warriors returned to the library for a final look at their maps and a final talk of strategy.
“Remember,” said Badger, “don’t move a muscle until they’ve finished singing. Then the Chief’ll blow out the candle and everyone will cheer. That will be your signal.”
“What if we can’t hear inside the cake?” said Toad.
The butler entered and announced, “Miss Matilda is ready for you.”
They picked up their weapons and trooped down to the kitchen to find their singular conveyance covered in pink and blue rosettes. Their machine of war looked like nothing more than an enormous—and innocent—birthday cake. They examined it and praised Matilda’s handiwork.
“It’s perfect!” exclaimed the Rat. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d be completely taken in.”
“It’s a Trojan horse, er, cake,” said Mole.
“Well done,” said Badger.
“Erm, there are plenty of air holes, right?” said Toad.
Matilda beamed at their praise. They carefully loaded the cake onto the gardener’s first-best wheelbarrow. Toad and Mole climbed up the stepladder and gingerly lowered themselves into the hollowed-out interior, taking pains not to smudge the icing. Then it was the Rat’s turn. But first he took Matilda’s paws in his and said, “We are embarking upon a dangerous mission. If anything should happen, promise me you’ll save yourself.”
“I promise,” she said. They gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and then tenderly touched noses.
Badger looked away and cleared his throat. “Time to go,” he said gruffly.
The Rat lowered himself into the cake, but not before bestowing upon his beloved a last look that spoke volumes. Badger hoisted the false top and eased it into place. From inside the cake came muffled complaints: “You’re squashing me!” “Move over!” “I am over!”
“Settle down, you lot,” ordered Badger, and there was immediate silence. Matilda piped a last ribbon of icing around the seam. She circled the cake, examining it with a critical eye, and found everything satisfactory. “Right,” she said. “There’s only one last thing…” She retrieved a large apron and neckerchief and white cap from the scullery and gave them to Badger, who put them on to play the part of her assistant.
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