“My last voyage,” began the Sea Rat, “that landed me eventually in this

country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good

example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my

highly-coloured life. Family troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic

storm-cone was hoisted, and I shipped myself on board a small trading

vessel bound from Constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave

throbs with a deathless memory, to the Grecian Islands and the Levant.

Those were golden days and balmy nights! In and out of harbour all the

time—old friends everywhere—sleeping in some cool temple or ruined

cistern during the heat of the day—feasting and song after sundown,

under great stars set in a velvet sky! Thence we turned and coasted up

the Adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and

aquamarine; we lay in wide land-locked harbours, we roamed through

ancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose

royally behind us, we rode into Venice down a path of gold. O, Venice

is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his

pleasure! Or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the Grand

Canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of

music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on

the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you

could walk across the canal on them from side to side! And then the

food—do you like shellfish? Well, well, we won’t linger over that now.”

He was silent for a time; and the Water Rat, silent too and enthralled,

floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between

vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.

“Southwards we sailed again at last,” continued the Sea Rat, “coasting

down the Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, and there I

quitted for a long, happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to one

ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is one of

my happy hunting-grounds. I know everybody there, and their ways just

suit me. I spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends

up country. When I grew restless again I took advantage of a ship that

was trading to Sardinia and Corsica; and very glad I was to feel the

fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more.”

“But isn’t it very hot and stuffy, down in the—hold, I think you call

it?” asked the Water Rat.

The seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. “I’m an old

hand,” he remarked with much simplicity. “The captain’s cabin’s good

enough for me.”

“It’s a hard life, by all accounts,” murmured the Rat, sunk in deep

thought.

“For the crew it is,” replied the seafarer gravely, again with the

ghost of a wink.

“From Corsica,” he went on, “I made use of a ship that was taking wine

to the mainland. We made Alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our

wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long

line. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as

they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks,

like a mile of porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which

dragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine

rush and clatter and scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and

refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our

friends, and next morning I took to the great olive-woods for a spell

and a rest. For now I had done with islands for the time, and ports and

shipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy life among the peasants, lying

and watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue

Mediterranean far below me. And so at length, by easy stages, and

partly on foot, partly by sea, to Marseilles, and the meeting of old

shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting

once more. Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish

of Marseilles, and wake up crying!”

“That reminds me,” said the polite Water Rat; “you happened to mention

that you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier. Of course,

you will stop and take your midday meal with me? My hole is close by;

it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there

is.”

“Now I call that kind and brotherly of you,” said the Sea Rat. “I was

indeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened

to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn’t you

fetch it along out here? I am none too fond of going under hatches,

unless I’m obliged to; and then, while we eat, I could tell you more

concerning my voyages and the pleasant life I lead—at least, it is very

pleasant to me, and by your attention I judge it commends itself to

you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall

presently fall asleep.”

“That is indeed an excellent suggestion,” said the Water Rat, and

hurried off home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a

simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger’s origin and

preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a

sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and

cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled

sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he

returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman’s

commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the

basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.

The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the

history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to

port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux, introducing

him to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so up the

Channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long

contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first

magical hints and heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these,

had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on

some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.

Spell-bound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the

Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded

roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers

that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with

a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he

desired to hear nothing.

By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and

strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness

that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with

the red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the

Water Rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he

talked. Those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of

leaping Northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the

very heart of the South, beating for him who had courage to respond to

its pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast

red, mastered the Water Rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless.

The quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be.

And the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on—or was it speech entirely,

or did it pass at times into song—chanty of the sailors weighing the

dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter,

ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot

sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it

change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as

it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle

of air from the leech of the bellying sail? All these sounds the

spell-bound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint

of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave,

the cry of the protesting shingle. Back into speech again it passed,

and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen

seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the

gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in

still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep-sea

fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long

net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the

tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of

the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened

out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of

the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the

comforting glow of red-curtained windows.

Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had

risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with

his sea-grey eyes.

“And now,” he was softly saying, “I take to the road again, holding on

southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the

little grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side

of the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of

stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a

patch of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to

the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those

I clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the

flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and

foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day,

up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There, sooner or later,

the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined

hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my

time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting

for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing

down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then

one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the

clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily

in. We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on

the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way,

and the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she

will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding

slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!

“And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and

never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the Adventure,

heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! ’Tis but a

banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are

out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long

hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the

play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of

goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road,

for you are young, and I am ageing and go softly. I will linger, and

look back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and

light-hearted, with all the South in your face!”

The voice died away and ceased as an insect’s tiny trumpet dwindles

swiftly into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at

last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.

Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket,

carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered

together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of,

and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about

the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He swung

the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his

wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped

across the threshold just as the Mole appeared at the door.

“Why, where are you off to, Ratty?” asked the Mole in great surprise,

grasping him by the arm.

“Going South, with the rest of them,” murmured the Rat in a dreamy

monotone, never looking at him. “Seawards first and then on shipboard,

and so to the shores that are calling me!”

He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged

fixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself

in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed

and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey—not his friend’s eyes,

but the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him strongly he

dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.

The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength

seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with

closed eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and

placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into

himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into

an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the

satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table

by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the

Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings

of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole; and

from that he passed into a deep slumber.

Very anxious in mind, the Mole left him for a time and busied himself

with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the

parlour and found the Rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but

listless, silent, and dejected. He took one hasty glance at his eyes;

found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again

as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to

relate what had happened to him.

Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could

he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall, for

another’s benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how

reproduce at second-hand the magic of the Seafarer’s hundred

reminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the

glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed,

some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising,

then, that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he

had been through that day.

To the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away,

and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the

reaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the

things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant

forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season

was surely bringing.

Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk

to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and

their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising

over bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples

around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling

of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter,

its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply

lyrical.

By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye

brightened, and he lost some of his listening air.

Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and

a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his

friend’s elbow.

“It’s quite a long time since you did any poetry,” he remarked. “You

might have a try at it this evening, instead of—well, brooding over

things so much. I’ve an idea that you’ll feel a lot better when you’ve

got something jotted down—if it’s only just the rhymes.”

The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole

took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time

later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately

scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked

a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know

that the cure had at least begun.

X.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD

The front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so Toad was called

at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him,

partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream that

he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the Tudor window,

on a cold winter’s night, and his bedclothes had got up, grumbling and

protesting they couldn’t stand the cold any longer, and had run

downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed,

on bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages,

arguing and beseeching them to be reasonable. He would probably have

been aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw

over stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick

blankets pulled well up round the chin.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next,

wondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone

wall and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart,

remembered everything—his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered,

first and best thing of all, that he was free!

Free! The word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. He was

warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting

eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and

play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it

always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. He

shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his

fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable

morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous

terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and

heartening sunshine.

He had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy

woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields

that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road

itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere,

seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. Toad,

however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him

clearly which way he ought to go. It is all very well, when you have a

light heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and

nobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again, to

follow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither. The

practical Toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the

road for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to

him.

The reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother

in the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its

side in perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied,

uncommunicative attitude towards strangers. “Bother them!” said Toad to

himself. “But, anyhow, one thing’s clear. They must both be coming

_from_ somewhere, and going _to_ somewhere. You can’t get over that.

Toad, my boy!” So he marched on patiently by the water’s edge.

Round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping

forward as if in anxious thought. From rope traces attached to his

collar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the

further part of it dripping pearly drops. Toad let the horse pass, and

stood waiting for what the fates were sending him.

With a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up

alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path,

its sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one

brawny arm laid along the tiller.

“A nice morning, ma’am!” she remarked to Toad, as she drew up level

with him.

“I dare say it is, ma’am!” responded Toad politely, as he walked along

the tow-path abreast of her. “I dare it _is_ a nice morning to them

that’s not in sore trouble, like what I am. Here’s my married daughter,

she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off I comes,

not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the

worst, as you will understand, ma’am, if you’re a mother, too. And I’ve

left my business to look after itself—I’m in the washing and laundering

line, you must know, ma’am—and I’ve left my young children to look

after themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young

imps doesn’t exist, ma’am; and I’ve lost all my money, and lost my way,

and as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, I don’t

like to think of it, ma’am!”

“Where might your married daughter be living, ma’am?” asked the

barge-woman.

“She lives near to the river, ma’am,” replied Toad. “Close to a fine

house called Toad Hall, that’s somewheres hereabouts in these parts.

Perhaps you may have heard of it.”

“Toad Hall? Why, I’m going that way myself,” replied the barge-woman.

“This canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above Toad

Hall; and then it’s an easy walk. You come along in the barge with me,

and I’ll give you a lift.”

She steered the barge close to the bank, and Toad, with many humble and

grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with

great satisfaction. “Toad’s luck again!” thought he. “I always come out

on top!”

“So you’re in the washing business, ma’am?” said the barge-woman

politely, as they glided along. “And a very good business you’ve got

too, I dare say, if I’m not making too free in saying so.”

“Finest business in the whole country,” said Toad airily. “All the

gentry come to me—wouldn’t go to any one else if they were paid, they

know me so well. You see, I understand my work thoroughly, and attend

to it all myself. Washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents’

fine shirts for evening wear—everything’s done under my own eye!”

“But surely you don’t _do_ all that work yourself, ma’am?” asked the

barge-woman respectfully.

“O, I have girls,” said Toad lightly: “twenty girls or thereabouts,

always at work. But you know what _girls_ are, ma’am! Nasty little

hussies, that’s what _I_ call ’em!”

“So do I, too,” said the barge-woman with great heartiness. “But I dare

say you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! And are you _very_ fond

of washing?”

“I love it,” said Toad. “I simply dote on it. Never so happy as when

I’ve got both arms in the wash-tub. But, then, it comes so easy to me!

No trouble at all! A real pleasure, I assure you, ma’am!”

“What a bit of luck, meeting you!” observed the barge-woman,

thoughtfully. “A regular piece of good fortune for both of us!”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Toad, nervously.

“Well, look at me, now,” replied the barge-woman. “_I_ like washing,

too, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether I like it or

not I have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as I do. Now

my husband, he’s such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the

barge to me, that never a moment do I get for seeing to my own affairs.

By rights he ought to be here now, either steering or attending to the

horse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to attend to himself.

Instead of which, he’s gone off with the dog, to see if they can’t pick

up a rabbit for dinner somewhere. Says he’ll catch me up at the next

lock. Well, that’s as may be—I don’t trust him, once he gets off with

that dog, who’s worse than he is. But meantime, how am I to get on with

my washing?”

“O, never mind about the washing,” said Toad, not liking the subject.

“Try and fix your mind on that rabbit. A nice fat young rabbit, I’ll be

bound. Got any onions?”

“I can’t fix my mind on anything but my washing,” said the barge-woman,

“and I wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful

prospect before you. There’s a heap of things of mine that you’ll find

in a corner of the cabin. If you’ll just take one or two of the most

necessary sort—I won’t venture to describe them to a lady like you, but

you’ll recognise them at a glance—and put them through the wash-tub as

we go along, why, it’ll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a

real help to me. You’ll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the

stove, and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with. Then I shall

know you’re enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at

the scenery and yawning your head off.”

“Here, you let me steer!” said Toad, now thoroughly frightened, “and

then you can get on with your washing your own way. I might spoil your

things, or not do ’em as you like. I’m more used to gentlemen’s things

myself. It’s my special line.”

“Let you steer?” replied the barge-woman, laughing. “It takes some

practice to steer a barge properly. Besides, it’s dull work, and I want

you to be happy. No, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and

I’ll stick to the steering that I understand. Don’t try and deprive me

of the pleasure of giving you a treat!”

Toad was fairly cornered. He looked for escape this way and that, saw

that he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly

resigned himself to his fate. “If it comes to that,” he thought in

desperation, “I suppose any fool can _wash!_”

He fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a

few garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual

glances through laundry windows, and set to.

A long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw Toad getting

crosser and crosser. Nothing that he could do to the things seemed to

please them or do them good. He tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he

tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted,

happy in their original sin. Once or twice he looked nervously over his

shoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in front

of her, absorbed in her steering. His back ached badly, and he noticed

with dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly. Now Toad

was very proud of his paws. He muttered under his breath words that

should never pass the lips of either washerwomen or Toads; and lost the

soap, for the fiftieth time.

A burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. The

barge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the

tears ran down her cheeks.

“I’ve been watching you all the time,” she gasped. “I thought you must

be a humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked. Pretty

washerwoman you are! Never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life,

I’ll lay!”

Toad’s temper which had been simmering viciously for some time, now

fairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself.

“You common, low, _fat_ barge-woman!” he shouted; “don’t you dare to

talk to your betters like that! Washerwoman indeed! I would have you to

know that I am a Toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished

Toad! I may be under a bit of a cloud at present, but I will _not_ be

laughed at by a bargewoman!”

The woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and

closely. “Why, so you are!” she cried. “Well, I never! A horrid, nasty,

crawly Toad! And in my nice clean barge, too! Now that is a thing that

I will _not_ have.”

She relinquished the tiller for a moment. One big mottled arm shot out

and caught Toad by a fore-leg, while the other-gripped him fast by a

hind-leg. Then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed

to flit lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and Toad

found himself flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went.

The water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved

quite cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to

quell his proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper. He

rose to the surface spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed

out of his eyes the first thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking

back at him over the stern of the retreating barge and laughing; and he

vowed, as he coughed and choked, to be even with her.

He struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his

efforts, and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb

up the steep bank unassisted. He had to take a minute or two’s rest to

recover his breath; then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms,

he started to run after the barge as fast as his legs would carry him,

wild with indignation, thirsting for revenge.

The barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her. “Put

yourself through your mangle, washerwoman,” she called out, “and iron

your face and crimp it, and you’ll pass for quite a decent-looking

Toad!”

Toad never paused to reply. Solid revenge was what he wanted, not

cheap, windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind

that he would have liked to say. He saw what he wanted ahead of him.

Running swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the towrope and

cast off, jumped lightly on the horse’s back, and urged it to a gallop

by kicking it vigorously in the sides. He steered for the open country,

abandoning the tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane. Once

he looked back, and saw that the barge had run aground on the other

side of the canal, and the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and

shouting, “Stop, stop, stop!” “I’ve heard that song before,” said Toad,

laughing, as he continued to spur his steed onward in its wild career.

The barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its

gallop soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but

Toad was quite contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was

moving, and the barge was not. He had quite recovered his temper, now

that he had done something he thought really clever; and he was

satisfied to jog along quietly in the sun, steering his horse along

by-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to forget how very long it was

since he had had a square meal, till the canal had been left very far

behind him.

He had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling

drowsy in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head,

and began to nibble the grass; and Toad, waking up, just saved himself

from falling off by an effort. He looked about him and found he was on

a wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he

could see. Near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man

was sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and

staring into the wide world. A fire of sticks was burning near by, and

over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth

bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. Also

smells—warm, rich, and varied smells—that twined and twisted and

wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect

smell that seemed like the very soul of Nature taking form and

appearing to her children, a true Goddess, a mother of solace and

comfort. Toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before.

What he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm.

This was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to

be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or

something. He looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely

whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him. So there he sat,

and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and

smoked, and looked at him.

Presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a

careless way, “Want to sell that there horse of yours?”

Toad was completely taken aback. He did not know that gipsies were very

fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not

reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of

drawing. It had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but

the gipsy’s suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things

he wanted so badly—ready money, and a solid breakfast.

“What?” he said, “me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? O, no;

it’s out of the question. Who’s going to take the washing home to my

customers every week? Besides, I’m too fond of him, and he simply dotes

on me.”

“Try and love a donkey,” suggested the gipsy. “Some people do.”

“You don’t seem to see,” continued Toad, “that this fine horse of mine

is a cut above you altogether. He’s a blood horse, he is, partly; not

the part you see, of course—another part. And he’s been a Prize

Hackney, too, in his time—that was the time before you knew him, but

you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything

about horses. No, it’s not to be thought of for a moment. All the same,

how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young

horse of mine?”

The gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked Toad over with

equal care, and looked at the horse again. “Shillin’ a leg,” he said

briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide

world out of countenance.

“A shilling a leg?” cried Toad. “If you please, I must take a little

time to work that out, and see just what it comes to.”

He climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by

the gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, “A

shilling a leg? Why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more.

O, no; I could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful

young horse of mine.”

“Well,” said the gipsy, “I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll make it

five shillings, and that’s three-and-sixpence more than the animal’s

worth. And that’s my last word.”

Then Toad sat and pondered long and deeply. For he was hungry and quite

penniless, and still some way—he knew not how far—from home, and

enemies might still be looking for him. To one in such a situation,

five shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. On the other

hand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse. But then, again,

the horse hadn’t cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear

profit. At last he said firmly, “Look here, gipsy! I tell you what we

will do; and this is _my_ last word. You shall hand me over six

shillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto,

you shall give me as much breakfast as I can possibly eat, at one

sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending

forth such delicious and exciting smells. In return, I will make over

to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and

trappings that are on him, freely thrown in. If that’s not good enough

for you, say so, and I’ll be getting on. I know a man near here who’s

wanted this horse of mine for years.”

The gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals

of that sort he’d be ruined. But in the end he lugged a dirty canvas

bag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six

shillings and sixpence into Toad’s paw. Then he disappeared into the

caravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a

knife, fork, and spoon. He tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of

hot rich stew gurgled into the plate. It was, indeed, the most

beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants,

and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and pea-hens, and guinea-fowls,

and one or two other things. Toad took the plate on his lap, almost

crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for

more, and the gipsy never grudged it him. He thought that he had never

eaten so good a breakfast in all his life.

When Toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could

possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an

affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the

riverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth

on his travels again in the best possible spirits. He was, indeed, a

very different Toad from the animal of an hour ago. The sun was shining

brightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his

pocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most

and best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and

felt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident.

As he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes,

and how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find

a way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him. “Ho,

ho!” he said to himself as he marched along with his chin in the air,

“what a clever Toad I am! There is surely no animal equal to me for

cleverness in the whole world! My enemies shut me up in prison,

encircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; I walk out

through them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage. They pursue me

with engines, and policemen, and revolvers; I snap my fingers at them,

and vanish, laughing, into space. I am, unfortunately, thrown into a

canal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded. What of it? I swim

ashore, I seize her horse, I ride off in triumph, and I sell the horse

for a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast! Ho, ho! I am

The Toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful Toad!” He got so

puffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of

himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one

to hear it but him. It was perhaps the most conceited song that any

animal ever composed.

“The world has held great Heroes,

As history-books have showed;

But never a name to go down to fame

Compared with that of Toad!

“The clever men at Oxford

Know all that there is to be knowed.

But they none of them know one half as much

As intelligent Mr. Toad!

“The animals sat in the Ark and cried,

Their tears in torrents flowed.

Who was it said, ‘There’s land ahead?’

Encouraging Mr. Toad!

“The army all saluted

As they marched along the road.

Was it the King? Or Kitchener?

No. It was Mr. Toad.

“The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting

Sat at the window and sewed.

She cried, ‘Look! who’s that _handsome_ man?’

They answered, ‘Mr. Toad.’”

There was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully

conceited to be written down. These are some of the milder verses.

He sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated

every minute. But his pride was shortly to have a severe fall.

After some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he

turned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching

him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into

something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well

known, fell on his delighted ear.

“This is something like!” said the excited Toad. “This is real life

again, this is once more the great world from which I have been missed

so long! I will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a

yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will

give me a lift, of course, and then I will talk to them some more; and,

perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to Toad Hall in a

motor-car! That will be one in the eye for Badger!”

He stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which

came along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when

suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees

shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a

sickening pain in his interior. And well he might, the unhappy animal;

for the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard

of the Red Lion Hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began!

And the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched

at luncheon in the coffee-room!

He sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to

himself in his despair, “It’s all up! It’s all over now! Chains and

policemen again! Prison again! Dry bread and water again! O, what a

fool I have been! What did I want to go strutting about the country

for, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the

high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly

by back ways! O hapless Toad! O ill-fated animal!”

The terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he

heard it stop just short of him. Two gentlemen got out and walked round

the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of

them said, “O dear! this is very sad! Here is a poor old thing—a

washerwoman apparently—who has fainted in the road! Perhaps she is

overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any

food to-day. Let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest

village, where doubtless she has friends.”

They tenderly lifted Toad into the motor-car and propped him up with

soft cushions, and proceeded on their way.

When Toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew

that he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he

cautiously opened first one eye and then the other.

“Look!” said one of the gentlemen, “she is better already. The fresh

air is doing her good. How do you feel now, ma’am?”

“Thank you kindly, Sir,” said Toad in a feeble voice, “I’m feeling a

great deal better!” “That’s right,” said the gentleman. “Now keep quite

still, and, above all, don’t try to talk.”

“I won’t,” said Toad. “I was only thinking, if I might sit on the front

seat there, beside the driver, where I could get the fresh air full in

my face, I should soon be all right again.”

“What a very sensible woman!” said the gentleman. “Of course you

shall.” So they carefully helped Toad into the front seat beside the

driver, and on they went again.

Toad was almost himself again by now. He sat up, looked about him, and

tried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that

rose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely.

“It is fate!” he said to himself. “Why strive? why struggle?” and he

turned to the driver at his side.

“Please, Sir,” he said, “I wish you would kindly let me try and drive

the car for a little. I’ve been watching you carefully, and it looks so

easy and so interesting, and I should like to be able to tell my

friends that once I had driven a motor-car!”

The driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman

inquired what the matter was. When he heard, he said, to Toad’s

delight, “Bravo, ma’am! I like your spirit. Let her have a try, and

look after her. She won’t do any harm.”

Toad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the

steering-wheel in his hands, listened with affected humility to the

instructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very slowly and

carefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent.

The gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and Toad heard

them saying, “How well she does it! Fancy a washerwoman driving a car

as well as that, the first time!”

Toad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster.

He heard the gentlemen call out warningly, “Be careful, washerwoman!”

And this annoyed him, and he began to lose his head.

The driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with

one elbow, and put on full speed. The rush of air in his face, the hum

of the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him intoxicated

his weak brain. “Washerwoman, indeed!” he shouted recklessly. “Ho! ho!

I am the Toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the Toad who

always escapes! Sit still, and you shall know what driving really is,

for you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely

fearless Toad!”

With a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him.

“Seize him!” they cried, “seize the Toad, the wicked animal who stole

our motor-car! Bind him, chain him, drag him to the nearest

police-station! Down with the desperate and dangerous Toad!”

Alas! they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent,

they should have remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before

playing any pranks of that sort. With a half-turn of the wheel the Toad

sent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the

roadside. One mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car

were churning up the thick mud of a horse-pond.

Toad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush

and delicate curve of a swallow. He liked the motion, and was just

beginning to wonder whether it would go on until he developed wings and

turned into a Toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in

the soft rich grass of a meadow. Sitting up, he could just see the

motor-car in the pond, nearly submerged; the gentlemen and the driver,

encumbered by their long coats, were floundering helplessly in the

water.

He picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as

hard as he could, scrambling through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding

across fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had to settle down

into an easy walk. When he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was

able to think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to

laughing, and he laughed till he had to sit down under a hedge. “Ho,

ho!” he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration, “Toad again! Toad, as

usual, comes out on the top! Who was it got them to give him a lift?

Who managed to get on the front seat for the sake of fresh air? Who

persuaded them into letting him see if he could drive? Who landed them

all in a horse-pond? Who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through

the air, leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in

the mud where they should rightly be? Why, Toad, of course; clever

Toad, great Toad, _good_ Toad!”

Then he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice—

“The motor-car went Poop-poop-poop,

As it raced along the road.

Who was it steered it into a pond?

Ingenious Mr. Toad!

O, how clever I am! How clever, how clever, how very clev——”

A slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and

look. O horror! O misery! O despair!

About two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large

rural policemen were visible, running towards him as hard as they could

go!

Poor Toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his

mouth. O, my!” he gasped, as he panted along, “what an _ass_ I am! What

a _conceited_ and heedless ass! Swaggering again! Shouting and singing

songs again! Sitting still and gassing again! O my! O my! O my!”

He glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him.

On he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still

gained steadily. He did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs

were short, and still they gained. He could hear them close behind him

now. Ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and

wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy,

when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air,

and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid

water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend

with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the

river!

He rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that

grew along the water’s edge close under the bank, but the stream was so

strong that it tore them out of his hands. “O my!” gasped poor Toad,

“if ever I steal a motor-car again! If ever I sing another conceited

song”—then down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering.

Presently he saw that he was approaching a big dark hole in the bank,

just above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with

a paw and caught hold of the edge and held on. Then slowly and with

difficulty he drew himself up out of the water, till at last he was

able to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole. There he remained for

some minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted.

As he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some

bright small thing shone and twinkled in its depths, moving towards

him. As it approached, a face grew up gradually around it, and it was a

familiar face!

Brown and small, with whiskers.

Grave and round, with neat ears and silky hair.

It was the Water Rat!

XI.

“LIKE SUMMER TEMPESTS CAME HIS TEARS”

The Rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped Toad firmly by the

scruff of the neck, and gave a great hoist and a pull; and the

water-logged Toad came up slowly but surely over the edge of the hole,

till at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and

weed to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and

high-spirited as of old, now that he found himself once more in the

house of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he could

lay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such

a lot of living up to.

“O, Ratty!” he cried. “I’ve been through such times since I saw you

last, you can’t think! Such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly

borne! Then such escapes, such disguises such subterfuges, and all so

cleverly planned and carried out! Been in prison—got out of it, of

course! Been thrown into a canal—swam ashore! Stole a horse—sold him

for a large sum of money! Humbugged everybody—made ’em all do exactly

what I wanted! Oh, I _am_ a smart Toad, and no mistake! What do you

think my last exploit was? Just hold on till I tell you——”

“Toad,” said the Water Rat, gravely and firmly, “you go off upstairs at

once, and take off that old cotton rag that looks as if it might

formerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean yourself

thoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down

looking like a gentleman if you _can;_ for a more shabby, bedraggled,

disreputable-looking object than you are I never set eyes on in my

whole life! Now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off! I’ll have

something to say to you later!”

Toad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him. He

had had enough of being ordered about when he was in prison, and here

was the thing being begun all over again, apparently; and by a Rat,

too! However, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the

hat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye,

and he changed his mind and went very quickly and humbly upstairs to

the Rat’s dressing-room. There he had a thorough wash and brush-up,

changed his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass,

contemplating himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter

idiots all the people must have been to have ever mistaken him for one

moment for a washerwoman.

By the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad

Toad was to see it, for he had been through some trying experiences and

had taken much hard exercise since the excellent breakfast provided for

him by the gipsy. While they ate Toad told the Rat all his adventures,

dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in

emergencies, and cunning in tight places; and rather making out that he

had been having a gay and highly-coloured experience. But the more he

talked and boasted, the more grave and silent the Rat became.

When at last Toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence

for a while; and then the Rat said, “Now, Toady, I don’t want to give

you pain, after all you’ve been through already; but, seriously, don’t

you see what an awful ass you’ve been making of yourself? On your own

admission you have been handcuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased,

terrified out of your life, insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously

flung into the water—by a woman, too! Where’s the amusement in that?

Where does the fun come in? And all because you must needs go and steal

a motor-car. You know that you’ve never had anything but trouble from

motor-cars from the moment you first set eyes on one. But if you _will_

be mixed up with them—as you generally are, five minutes after you’ve

started—why _steal_ them? Be a cripple, if you think it’s exciting; be

a bankrupt, for a change, if you’ve set your mind on it: but why choose

to be a convict? When are you going to be sensible, and think of your

friends, and try and be a credit to them? Do you suppose it’s any

pleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as I go about,

that I’m the chap that keeps company with gaol-birds?”

Now, it was a very comforting point in Toad’s character that he was a

thoroughly good-hearted animal and never minded being jawed by those

who were his real friends. And even when most set upon a thing, he was

always able to see the other side of the question. So although, while

the Rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously,

“But it _was_ fun, though! Awful fun!” and making strange suppressed

noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds

resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet

when the Rat had quite finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very

nicely and humbly, “Quite right, Ratty! How _sound_ you always are!

Yes, I’ve been a conceited old ass, I can quite see that; but now I’m

going to be a good Toad, and not do it any more. As for motor-cars,

I’ve not been at all so keen about them since my last ducking in that

river of yours. The fact is, while I was hanging on to the edge of your

hole and getting my breath, I had a sudden idea—a really brilliant

idea—connected with motor-boats—there, there! don’t take on so, old

chap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won’t

talk any more about it now. We’ll have our coffee, _and_ a smoke, and a

quiet chat, and then I’m going to stroll quietly down to Toad Hall, and

get into clothes of my own, and set things going again on the old

lines. I’ve had enough of adventures. I shall lead a quiet, steady,

respectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and

doing a little landscape gardening at times. There will always be a bit

of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and I shall keep a

pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as I used to in the good

old days, before I got restless, and wanted to _do_ things.”

“Stroll quietly down to Toad Hall?” cried the Rat, greatly excited.

“What are you talking about? Do you mean to say you haven’t _heard?_”

“Heard what?” said Toad, turning rather pale. “Go on, Ratty! Quick!

Don’t spare me! What haven’t I heard?”

“Do you mean to tell me,” shouted the Rat, thumping with his little

fist upon the table, “that you’ve heard nothing about the Stoats and

Weasels?”

What, the Wild Wooders?” cried Toad, trembling in every limb. “No, not

a word! What have they been doing?”

“—And how they’ve been and taken Toad Hall?” continued the Rat.

Toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a

large tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on

the table, plop! plop!

“Go on, Ratty,” he murmured presently; “tell me all. The worst is over.

I am an animal again. I can bear it.”

“When you—got—into that—that—trouble of yours,” said the Rat, slowly

and impressively; “I mean, when you—disappeared from society for a

time, over that misunderstanding about a—a machine, you know—”

Toad merely nodded.

“Well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally,” continued

the Rat, “not only along the river-side, but even in the Wild Wood.

Animals took sides, as always happens. The River-bankers stuck up for

you, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice

to be had in the land nowadays. But the Wild Wood animals said hard

things, and served you right, and it was time this sort of thing was

stopped. And they got very cocky, and went about saying you were done

for this time! You would never come back again, never, never!”

Toad nodded once more, keeping silence.

“That’s the sort of little beasts they are,” the Rat went on. “But Mole

and Badger, they stuck out, through thick and thin, that you would come

back again soon, somehow. They didn’t know exactly how, but somehow!”

Toad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little.

“They argued from history,” continued the Rat. “They said that no

criminal laws had ever been known to prevail against cheek and

plausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long purse. So

they arranged to move their things in to Toad Hall, and sleep there,

and keep it aired, and have it all ready for you when you turned up.

They didn’t guess what was going to happen, of course; still, they had

their suspicions of the Wild Wood animals. Now I come to the most

painful and tragic part of my story. One dark night—it was a _very_

dark night, and blowing hard, too, and raining simply cats and dogs—a

band of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the

carriage-drive to the front entrance. Simultaneously, a body of

desperate ferrets, advancing through the kitchen-garden, possessed

themselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing

stoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the

billiard-room, and held the French windows opening on to the lawn.

“The Mole and the Badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room,

telling stories and suspecting nothing, for it wasn’t a night for any

animals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty villains broke down the

doors and rushed in upon them from every side. They made the best fight

they could, but what was the good? They were unarmed, and taken by

surprise, and what can two animals do against hundreds? They took and

beat them severely with sticks, those two poor faithful creatures, and

turned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and

uncalled-for remarks!”

Here the unfeeling Toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself

together and tried to look particularly solemn.

“And the Wild Wooders have been living in Toad Hall ever since,”

continued the Rat; “and going on simply anyhow! Lying in bed half the

day, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a mess (I’m

told) it’s not fit to be seen! Eating your grub, and drinking your

drink, and making bad jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs,

about—well, about prisons and magistrates, and policemen; horrid

personal songs, with no humour in them. And they’re telling the

tradespeople and everybody that they’ve come to stay for good.”

“O, have they!” said Toad getting up and seizing a stick. “I’ll jolly

soon see about that!”

“It’s no good, Toad!” called the Rat after him. “You’d better come back

and sit down; you’ll only get into trouble.”

But the Toad was off, and there was no holding him. He marched rapidly

down the road, his stick over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to

himself in his anger, till he got near his front gate, when suddenly

there popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a

gun.

“Who comes there?” said the ferret sharply.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Toad, very angrily. “What do you mean by

talking like that to me? Come out of that at once, or I’ll——”

The ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his

shoulder. Toad prudently dropped flat in the road, and _Bang!_ a bullet

whistled over his head.

The startled Toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road

as hard as he could; and as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and

other horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on the sound.

He went back, very crestfallen, and told the Water Rat.

“What did I tell you?” said the Rat. “It’s no good. They’ve got

sentries posted, and they are all armed. You must just wait.”

Still, Toad was not inclined to give in all at once. So he got out the

boat, and set off rowing up the river to where the garden front of Toad

Hall came down to the waterside.

Arriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and

surveyed the land cautiously. All seemed very peaceful and deserted and

quiet. He could see the whole front of Toad Hall, glowing in the

evening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the

straight line of the roof; the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek

that led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that crossed

it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return. He

would try the boat-house first, he thought. Very warily he paddled up

to the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under the bridge, when

... _Crash!_

A great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the

boat. It filled and sank, and Toad found himself struggling in deep

water. Looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the parapet of the

bridge and watching him with great glee. “It will be your head next

time, Toady!” they called out to him. The indignant Toad swam to shore,

while the stoats laughed and laughed, supporting each other, and

laughed again, till they nearly had two fits—that is, one fit each, of

course.

The Toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing

experiences to the Water Rat once more.

“Well, _what_ did I tell you?” said the Rat very crossly. “And, now,

look here! See what you’ve been and done! Lost me my boat that I was so

fond of, that’s what you’ve done! And simply ruined that nice suit of

clothes that I lent you! Really, Toad, of all the trying animals—I

wonder you manage to keep any friends at all!”

The Toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted. He

admitted his errors and wrong-headedness and made a full apology to Rat

for losing his boat and spoiling his clothes. And he wound up by

saying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his

friend’s criticism and won them back to his side, “Ratty! I see that I

have been a headstrong and a wilful Toad! Henceforth, believe me, I

will be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your

kind advice and full approval!”

“If that is really so,” said the good-natured Rat, already appeased,

“then my advice to you is, considering the lateness of the hour, to sit

down and have your supper, which will be on the table in a minute, and

be very patient. For I am convinced that we can do nothing until we

have seen the Mole and the Badger, and heard their latest news, and

held conference and taken their advice in this difficult matter.”

“Oh, ah, yes, of course, the Mole and the Badger,” said Toad, lightly.

“What’s become of them, the dear fellows? I had forgotten all about

them.”

“Well may you ask!” said the Rat reproachfully. “While you were riding

about the country in expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on

blood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the land, those two poor

devoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of

weather, living very rough by day and lying very hard by night;

watching over your house, patrolling your boundaries, keeping a

constant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and

contriving how to get your property back for you. You don’t deserve to

have such true and loyal friends, Toad, you don’t, really. Some day,

when it’s too late, you’ll be sorry you didn’t value them more while

you had them!”

“I’m an ungrateful beast, I know,” sobbed Toad, shedding bitter tears.

“Let me go out and find them, out into the cold, dark night, and share

their hardships, and try and prove by——Hold on a bit! Surely I heard

the chink of dishes on a tray! Supper’s here at last, hooray! Come on,

Ratty!”

The Rat remembered that poor Toad had been on prison fare for a

considerable time, and that large allowances had therefore to be made.

He followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably encouraged him

in his gallant efforts to make up for past privations.

They had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when

there came a heavy knock at the door.

Toad was nervous, but the Rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went

straight up to the door and opened it, and in walked Mr. Badger.

He had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away

from home and all its little comforts and conveniences. His shoes were

covered with mud, and he was looking very rough and touzled; but then

he had never been a very smart man, the Badger, at the best of times.

He came solemnly up to Toad, shook him by the paw, and said, “Welcome

home, Toad! Alas! what am I saying? Home, indeed! This is a poor

home-coming. Unhappy Toad!” Then he turned his back on him, sat down to

the table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of

cold pie.

Toad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of

greeting; but the Rat whispered to him, “Never mind; don’t take any

notice; and don’t say anything to him just yet. He’s always rather low

and despondent when he’s wanting his victuals. In half an hour’s time

he’ll be quite a different animal.”

So they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a

lighter knock. The Rat, with a nod to Toad, went to the door and

ushered in the Mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of hay and

straw sticking in his fur.

“Hooray! Here’s old Toad!” cried the Mole, his face beaming. “Fancy

having you back again!” And he began to dance round him. “We never

dreamt you would turn up so soon! Why, you must have managed to escape,

you clever, ingenious, intelligent Toad!”

The Rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late. Toad

was puffing and swelling already.

“Clever? O, no!” he said. “I’m not really clever, according to my

friends. I’ve only broken out of the strongest prison in England,

that’s all! And captured a railway train and escaped on it, that’s all!

And disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody,

that’s all! O, no! I’m a stupid ass, I am! I’ll tell you one or two of

my little adventures, Mole, and you shall judge for yourself!”

“Well, well,” said the Mole, moving towards the supper-table;

“supposing you talk while I eat. Not a bite since breakfast! O my! O

my!” And he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef and

pickles.

Toad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his

trouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of silver. “Look at that!” he

cried, displaying it. “That’s not so bad, is it, for a few minutes’

work? And how do you think I done it, Mole? Horse-dealing! That’s how I

done it!”

“Go on, Toad,” said the Mole, immensely interested.

“Toad, do be quiet, please!” said the Rat. “And don’t you egg him on,

Mole, when you know what he is; but please tell us as soon as possible

what the position is, and what’s best to be done, now that Toad is back

at last.”

“The position’s about as bad as it can be,” replied the Mole grumpily;

“and as for what’s to be done, why, blest if I know! The Badger and I

have been round and round the place, by night and by day; always the

same thing. Sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones

thrown at us; always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us,

my! how they do laugh! That’s what annoys me most!”

“It’s a very difficult situation,” said the Rat, reflecting deeply.

“But I think I see now, in the depths of my mind, what Toad really

ought to do. I will tell you. He ought to——”

“No, he oughtn’t!” shouted the Mole, with his mouth full. “Nothing of

the sort! You don’t understand. What he ought to do is, he ought to——”

“Well, I shan’t do it, anyway!” cried Toad, getting excited. “I’m not

going to be ordered about by you fellows! It’s my house we’re talking

about, and I know exactly what to do, and I’ll tell you. I’m going

to——”

By this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their

voices, and the noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made

itself heard, saying, “Be quiet at once, all of you!” and instantly

every one was silent.

It was the Badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in

his chair and was looking at them severely. When he saw that he had

secured their attention, and that they were evidently waiting for him

to address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for

the cheese. And so great was the respect commanded by the solid

qualities of that admirable animal, that not another word was uttered

until he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his

knees. The Toad fidgeted a good deal, but the Rat held him firmly down.

When the Badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood

before the fireplace, reflecting deeply. At last he spoke.

“Toad!” he said severely. “You bad, troublesome little animal! Aren’t

you ashamed of yourself? What do you think your father, my old friend,

would have said if he had been here to-night, and had known of all your

goings on?”

Toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over

on his face, shaken by sobs of contrition.

“There, there!” went on the Badger, more kindly. “Never mind. Stop

crying. We’re going to let bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a

new leaf. But what the Mole says is quite true. The stoats are on

guard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world.

It’s quite useless to think of attacking the place. They’re too strong

for us.”

“Then it’s all over,” sobbed the Toad, crying into the sofa cushions.

“I shall go and enlist for a soldier, and never see my dear Toad Hall

any more!”

“Come, cheer up, Toady!” said the Badger. “There are more ways of

getting back a place than taking it by storm. I haven’t said my last

word yet. Now I’m going to tell you a great secret.”

Toad sat up slowly and dried his eyes. Secrets had an immense

attraction for him, because he never could keep one, and he enjoyed the

sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told another

animal, after having faithfully promised not to.

“There—is—an—underground—passage,” said the Badger, impressively, “that

leads from the river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of

Toad Hall.”

“O, nonsense! Badger,” said Toad, rather airily. “You’ve been listening

to some of the yarns they spin in the public-houses about here. I know

every inch of Toad Hall, inside and out. Nothing of the sort, I do

assure you!”

“My young friend,” said the Badger, with great severity, “your father,

who was a worthy animal—a lot worthier than some others I know—was a

particular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he wouldn’t have

dreamt of telling you. He discovered that passage—he didn’t make it, of

course; that was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live

there—and he repaired it and cleaned it out, because he thought it

might come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he

showed it to me. ‘Don’t let my son know about it,’ he said. ‘He’s a

good boy, but very light and volatile in character, and simply cannot

hold his tongue. If he’s ever in a real fix, and it would be of use to

him, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before.’”

The other animals looked hard at Toad to see how he would take it. Toad

was inclined to be sulky at first; but he brightened up immediately,

like the good fellow he was.

“Well, well,” he said; “perhaps I am a bit of a talker. A popular

fellow such as I am—my friends get round me—we chaff, we sparkle, we

tell witty stories—and somehow my tongue gets wagging. I have the gift

of conversation. I’ve been told I ought to have a _salon_, whatever

that may be. Never mind. Go on, Badger. How’s this passage of yours

going to help us?”

“I’ve found out a thing or two lately,” continued the Badger. “I got

Otter to disguise himself as a sweep and call at the back-door with

brushes over his shoulder, asking for a job. There’s going to be a big

banquet to-morrow night. It’s somebody’s birthday—the Chief Weasel’s, I

believe—and all the weasels will be gathered together in the

dining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and carrying on,

suspecting nothing. No guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort

whatever!”

“But the sentinels will be posted as usual,” remarked the Rat.

“Exactly,” said the Badger; “that is my point. The weasels will trust

entirely to their excellent sentinels. And that is where the passage

comes in. That very useful tunnel leads right up under the butler’s

pantry, next to the dining-hall!”

“Aha! that squeaky board in the butler’s pantry!” said Toad. “Now I

understand it!”

“We shall creep out quietly into the butler’s pantry—” cried the Mole.

“—with our pistols and swords and sticks—” shouted the Rat.

“—and rush in upon them,” said the Badger.

“—and whack ’em, and whack ’em, and whack ’em!” cried the Toad in

ecstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs.

“Very well, then,” said the Badger, resuming his usual dry manner, “our

plan is settled, and there’s nothing more for you to argue and squabble

about. So, as it’s getting very late, all of you go right off to bed at

once. We will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the

morning to-morrow.”

Toad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest—he knew better

than to refuse—though he was feeling much too excited to sleep. But he

had had a long day, with many events crowded into it; and sheets and

blankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw,

and not too much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell;

and his head had not been many seconds on his pillow before he was

snoring happily. Naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran

away from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and

caught him, and a barge that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his

week’s washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party; and he was alone

in the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round

and shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he

found himself back in Toad Hall, safe and triumphant, with all his

friends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he really

was a clever Toad.

He slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he

found that the other animals had finished their breakfast some time

before. The Mole had slipped off somewhere by himself, without telling

any one where he was going to. The Badger sat in the arm-chair, reading

the paper, and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was

going to happen that very evening. The Rat, on the other hand, was

running round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every

kind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying

excitedly under his breath, as he ran, “Here’s-a-sword-for-the-Rat,

here’s-a-sword-for-the Mole, here’s-a-sword-for-the-Toad,

here’s-a-sword-for-the-Badger! Here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Rat,

here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Mole, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Toad,

here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Badger!” And so on, in a regular, rhythmical

way, while the four little heaps gradually grew and grew.

“That’s all very well, Rat,” said the Badger presently, looking at the

busy little animal over the edge of his newspaper; “I’m not blaming

you. But just let us once get past the stoats, with those detestable

guns of theirs, and I assure you we shan’t want any swords or pistols.

We four, with our sticks, once we’re inside the dining-hall, why, we

shall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five minutes. I’d have

done the whole thing by myself, only I didn’t want to deprive you

fellows of the fun!”

“It’s as well to be on the safe side,” said the Rat reflectively,

polishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve and looking along it.

The Toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and

swung it vigorously, belabouring imaginary animals. “I’ll learn ’em to

steal my house!” he cried. “I’ll learn ’em, I’ll learn ’em!”

“Don’t say ‘learn ’em,’ Toad,” said the Rat, greatly shocked. “It’s not

good English.”

“What are you always nagging at Toad for?” inquired the Badger, rather

peevishly. “What’s the matter with his English? It’s the same what I

use myself, and if it’s good enough for me, it ought to be good enough

for you!”

“I’m very sorry,” said the Rat humbly. “Only I _think_ it ought to be

‘teach ’em,’ not ‘learn ’em.’”

“But we don’t _want_ to teach ’em,” replied the Badger. “We want to

_learn_ ’em—learn ’em, learn ’em! And what’s more, we’re going to _do_

it, too!”

“Oh, very well, have it your own way,” said the Rat. He was getting

rather muddled about it himself, and presently he retired into a

corner, where he could be heard muttering, “Learn ’em, teach ’em, teach

’em, learn ’em!” till the Badger told him rather sharply to leave off.

Presently the Mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased

with himself. “I’ve been having such fun!” he began at once; “I’ve been

getting a rise out of the stoats!”

“I hope you’ve been very careful, Mole?” said the Rat anxiously.

“I should hope so, too,” said the Mole confidently. “I got the idea

when I went into the kitchen, to see about Toad’s breakfast being kept

hot for him. I found that old washerwoman-dress that he came home in

yesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire. So I put it on,

and the bonnet as well, and the shawl, and off I went to Toad Hall, as

bold as you please. The sentries were on the look-out, of course, with

their guns and their ‘Who comes there?’ and all the rest of their

nonsense. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ says I, very respectful. ‘Want any

washing done to-day?’

“They looked at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said, ‘Go

away, washerwoman! We don’t do any washing on duty.’ ‘Or any other

time?’ says I. Ho, ho, ho! Wasn’t I _funny_, Toad?”

“Poor, frivolous animal!” said Toad, very loftily. The fact is, he felt

exceedingly jealous of Mole for what he had just done. It was exactly

what he would have liked to have done himself, if only he had thought

of it first, and hadn’t gone and overslept himself.

“Some of the stoats turned quite pink,” continued the Mole, “and the

Sergeant in charge, he said to me, very short, he said, ‘Now run away,

my good woman, run away! Don’t keep my men idling and talking on their

posts.’ ‘Run away?’ says I; ‘it won’t be me that’ll be running away, in

a very short time from now!’”

“O _Moly_, how could you?” said the Rat, dismayed.

The Badger laid down his paper.

“I could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other,”

went on the Mole; “and the Sergeant said to them, ‘Never mind _her;_

she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’”

“‘O! don’t I?’” said I. “‘Well, let me tell you this. My daughter, she

washes for Mr. Badger, and that’ll show you whether I know what I’m

talking about; and _you’ll_ know pretty soon, too! A hundred

bloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack Toad Hall

this very night, by way of the paddock. Six boatloads of Rats, with

pistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a landing in

the garden; while a picked body of Toads, known at the Die-hards, or

the Death-or-Glory Toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything

before them, yelling for vengeance. There won’t be much left of you to

wash, by the time they’ve done with you, unless you clear out while you

have the chance!’ Then I ran away, and when I was out of sight I hid;

and presently I came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at

them through the hedge. They were all as nervous and flustered as could

be, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every

one giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the Sergeant

kept sending off parties of stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and

then sending other fellows to fetch ’em back again; and I heard them

saying to each other, ‘That’s just like the weasels; they’re to stop

comfortably in the banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and

songs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on guard in the cold and

the dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty Badgers!”’

“Oh, you silly ass, Mole!” cried Toad, “You’ve been and spoilt

everything!”

“Mole,” said the Badger, in his dry, quiet way, “I perceive you have

more sense in your little finger than some other animals have in the

whole of their fat bodies. You have managed excellently, and I begin to

have great hopes of you. Good Mole! Clever Mole!”

The Toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn’t

make out for the life of him what the Mole had done that was so

particularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he could show

temper or expose himself to the Badger’s sarcasm, the bell rang for

luncheon.

It was a simple but sustaining meal—bacon and broad beans, and a

macaroni pudding; and when they had quite done, the Badger settled

himself into an arm-chair, and said, “Well, we’ve got our work cut out

for us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we’re quite

through with it; so I’m just going to take forty winks, while I can.”

And he drew a handkerchief over his face and was soon snoring.

The anxious and laborious Rat at once resumed his preparations, and

started running between his four little heaps, muttering,

“Here’s-a-belt-for-the-Rat, here’s-a-belt-for-the-Mole,

here’s-a-belt-for-the-Toad, here’s-a-belt-for-the-Badger!” and so on,

with every fresh accoutrement he produced, to which there seemed really

no end; so the Mole drew his arm through Toad’s, led him out into the

open air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his

adventures from beginning to end, which Toad was only too willing to

do. The Mole was a good listener, and Toad, with no one to check his

statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself

go. Indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category

of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of

ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and the raciest

adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the

somewhat inadequate things that really come off?

XII.

THE RETURN OF ULYSSES

When it began to grow dark, the Rat, with an air of excitement and

mystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up

alongside of his little heap, and proceeded to dress them up for the

coming expedition. He was very earnest and thoroughgoing about it, and

the affair took quite a long time. First, there was a belt to go round

each animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a

cutlass on the other side to balance it. Then a pair of pistols, a

policeman’s truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some bandages and

sticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case. The Badger laughed

good-humouredly and said, “All right, Ratty! It amuses you and it

doesn’t hurt me. I’m going to do all I’ve got to do with this here

stick.” But the Rat only said, “_please_, Badger. You know I shouldn’t

like you to blame me afterwards and say I had forgotten _anything!_”

When all was quite ready, the Badger took a dark lantern in one paw,

grasped his great stick with the other, and said, “Now then, follow me!

Mole first, “cos I’m very pleased with him; Rat next; Toad last. And

look here, Toady! Don’t you chatter so much as usual, or you’ll be sent

back, as sure as fate!”

The Toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior

position assigned to him without a murmur, and the animals set off. The

Badger led them along by the river for a little way, and then suddenly

swung himself over the edge into a hole in the river-bank, a little

above the water. The Mole and the Rat followed silently, swinging

themselves successfully into the hole as they had seen the Badger do;

but when it came to Toad’s turn, of course he managed to slip and fall

into the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm. He was hauled

out by his friends, rubbed down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and

set on his legs; but the Badger was seriously angry, and told him that

the very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be

left behind.

So at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out

expedition had really begun!

It was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor Toad

began to shiver, partly from dread of what might be before him, partly

because he was wet through. The lantern was far ahead, and he could not

help lagging behind a little in the darkness. Then he heard the Rat

call out warningly, “_Come_ on, Toad!” and a terror seized him of being

left behind, alone in the darkness, and he “came on” with such a rush

that he upset the Rat into the Mole and the Mole into the Badger, and

for a moment all was confusion. The Badger thought they were being

attacked from behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a

cutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of putting a bullet into

Toad. When he found out what had really happened he was very angry

indeed, and said, “Now this time that tiresome Toad _shall_ be left

behind!”

But Toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be

answerable for his good conduct, and at last the Badger was pacified,

and the procession moved on; only this time the Rat brought up the

rear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of Toad.

So they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their

paws on their pistols, till at last the Badger said, “We ought by now

to be pretty nearly under the Hall.”

Then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently

nearly over their heads, a confused murmur of sound, as if people were

shouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and hammering on

tables. The Toad’s nervous terrors all returned, but the Badger only

remarked placidly, “They _are_ going it, the Weasels!”

The passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little

further, and then the noise broke out again, quite distinct this time,

and very close above them. “Ooo-ray-ooray-oo-ray-ooray!” they heard,

and the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of

glasses as little fists pounded on the table. “_What_ a time they’re

having!” said the Badger. “Come on!” They hurried along the passage

till it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under

the trap-door that led up into the butler’s pantry.

Such a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there

was little danger of their being overheard. The Badger said, “Now,

boys, all together!” and the four of them put their shoulders to the

trap-door and heaved it back. Hoisting each other up, they found

themselves standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and

the banqueting-hall, where their unconscious enemies were carousing.

The noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening. At

last, as the cheering and hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be

made out saying, “Well, I do not propose to detain you much

longer”—(great applause)—“but before I resume my seat”—(renewed

cheering)—“I should like to say one word about our kind host, Mr. Toad.

We all know Toad!”—(great laughter)—“_Good_ Toad, _modest_ Toad,

_honest_ Toad!” (shrieks of merriment).

“Only just let me get at him!” muttered Toad, grinding his teeth.

“Hold hard a minute!” said the Badger, restraining him with difficulty.

“Get ready, all of you!”

“—Let me sing you a little song,” went on the voice, “which I have

composed on the subject of Toad”—(prolonged applause).

Then the Chief Weasel—for it was he—began in a high, squeaky voice—

“Toad he went a-pleasuring

Gaily down the street—”

The Badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both

paws, glanced round at his comrades, and cried—

“The hour is come! Follow me!”

And flung the door open wide.

My!

What a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air!

Well might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly

up at the windows! Well might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace

and get hopelessly jammed in the chimney! Well might tables and chairs

be upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the

panic of that terrible moment when the four Heroes strode wrathfully

into the room! The mighty Badger, his whiskers bristling, his great

cudgel whistling through the air; Mole, black and grim, brandishing his

stick and shouting his awful war-cry, “A Mole! A Mole!” Rat; desperate

and determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every

variety; Toad, frenzied with excitement and injured pride, swollen to

twice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting Toad-whoops

that chilled them to the marrow! “Toad he went a-pleasuring!” he

yelled. “_I’ll_ pleasure ’em!” and he went straight for the Chief

Weasel. They were but four in all, but to the panic-stricken weasels

the hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and

yellow, whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and

fled with squeals of terror and dismay, this way and that, through the

windows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of those terrible

sticks.

The affair was soon over. Up and down, the whole length of the hall,

strode the four Friends, whacking with their sticks at every head that

showed itself; and in five minutes the room was cleared. Through the

broken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the

lawn were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some

dozen or so of the enemy, on whom the Mole was busily engaged in

fitting handcuffs. The Badger, resting from his labours, leant on his

stick and wiped his honest brow.

“Mole,” he said,” “you’re the best of fellows! Just cut along outside

and look after those stoat-sentries of yours, and see what they’re

doing. I’ve an idea that, thanks to you, we shan’t have much trouble

from _them_ to-night!”

The Mole vanished promptly through a window; and the Badger bade the

other two set a table on its legs again, pick up knives and forks and

plates and glasses from the _débris_ on the floor, and see if they

could find materials for a supper. “I want some grub, I do,” he said,

in that rather common way he had of speaking. “Stir your stumps, Toad,

and look lively! We’ve got your house back for you, and you don’t offer

us so much as a sandwich.” Toad felt rather hurt that the Badger didn’t

say pleasant things to him, as he had to the Mole, and tell him what a

fine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather

particularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the Chief

Weasel and sent him flying across the table with one blow of his stick.

But he bustled about, and so did the Rat, and soon they found some

guava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had

hardly been touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and

in the pantry they came upon a basketful of French rolls and any

quantity of cheese, butter, and celery. They were just about to sit

down when the Mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an

armful of rifles.

“It’s all over,” he reported. “From what I can make out, as soon as the

stoats, who were very nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and

the yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of them threw down their

rifles and fled. The others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels

came rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the

stoats grappled with the weasels, and the weasels fought to get away,

and they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and rolled over

and over, till most of ’em rolled into the river! They’ve all

disappeared by now, one way or another; and I’ve got their rifles. So

_that’s_ all right!”

“Excellent and deserving animal!” said the Badger, his mouth full of

chicken and trifle. “Now, there’s just one more thing I want you to do,

Mole, before you sit down to your supper along of us; and I wouldn’t

trouble you only I know I can trust you to see a thing done, and I wish

I could say the same of every one I know. I’d send Rat, if he wasn’t a

poet. I want you to take those fellows on the floor there upstairs with

you, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made really

comfortable. See that they sweep _under_ the beds, and put clean sheets

and pillow-cases on, and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just

as you know it ought to be done; and have a can of hot water, and clean

towels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room. And then you can

give them a licking a-piece, if it’s any satisfaction to you, and put

them out by the back-door, and we shan’t see any more of _them_, I

fancy. And then come along and have some of this cold tongue. It’s

first rate. I’m very pleased with you, Mole!”

The goodnatured Mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a

line on the floor, gave them the order “Quick march!” and led his squad

off to the upper floor. After a time, he appeared again, smiling, and

said that every room was ready, and as clean as a new pin. “And I

didn’t have to lick them, either,” he added. “I thought, on the whole,

they had had licking enough for one night, and the weasels, when I put

the point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn’t think

of troubling me. They were very penitent, and said they were extremely

sorry for what they had done, but it was all the fault of the Chief

Weasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us at any

time to make up, we had only got to mention it. So I gave them a roll

a-piece, and let them out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as

they could!”

Then the Mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the

cold tongue; and Toad, like the gentleman he was, put all his jealousy

from him, and said heartily, “Thank you kindly, dear Mole, for all your

pains and trouble tonight, and especially for your cleverness this

morning!” The Badger was pleased at that, and said, “There spoke my

brave Toad!” So they finished their supper in great joy and

contentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe

in Toad’s ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate

strategy, and a proper handling of sticks.

The following morning, Toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came

down to breakfast disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain

quantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold and leathery toast, a

coffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did

not tend to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his

own house. Through the French windows of the breakfast-room he could

see the Mole and the Water Rat sitting in wicker-chairs out on the

lawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and

kicking their short legs up in the air. The Badger, who was in an

arm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely looked up and nodded

when Toad entered the room. But Toad knew his man, so he sat down and

made the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he

would get square with the others sooner or later. When he had nearly

finished, the Badger looked up and remarked rather shortly: “I’m sorry,

Toad, but I’m afraid there’s a heavy morning’s work in front of you.

You see, we really ought to have a Banquet at once, to celebrate this

affair. It’s expected of you—in fact, it’s the rule.”

“O, all right!” said the Toad, readily. “Anything to oblige. Though why

on earth you should want to have a Banquet in the morning I cannot

understand. But you know I do not live to please myself, but merely to

find out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for ’em, you

dear old Badger!”

“Don’t pretend to be stupider than you really are,” replied the Badger,

crossly; “and don’t chuckle and splutter in your coffee while you’re

talking; it’s not manners. What I mean is, the Banquet will be at

night, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got

off at once, and you’ve got to write ’em. Now, sit down at that

table—there’s stacks of letter-paper on it, with ‘Toad Hall’ at the top

in blue and gold—and write invitations to all our friends, and if you

stick to it we shall get them out before luncheon. And _I’ll_ bear a

hand, too; and take my share of the burden. _I’ll_ order the Banquet.”

“What!” cried Toad, dismayed. “Me stop indoors and write a lot of

rotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when I want to go around

my property, and set everything and everybody to rights, and swagger

about and enjoy myself! Certainly not! I’ll be—I’ll see you——Stop a

minute, though! Why, of course, dear Badger! What is my pleasure or

convenience compared with that of others! You wish it done, and it

shall be done. Go, Badger, order the Banquet, order what you like; then

join our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me

and my cares and toils. I sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of

duty and friendship!”

The Badger looked at him very suspiciously, but Toad’s frank, open

countenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this

change of attitude. He quitted the room, accordingly, in the direction

of the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, Toad

hurried to the writing-table. A fine idea had occurred to him while he

was talking. He _would_ write the invitations; and he would take care

to mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had

laid the Chief Weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and

what a career of triumph he had to tell about; and on the fly-leaf he

would set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the

evening—something like this, as he sketched it out in his head:—

SPEECH. . . . BY TOAD.

(There will be other speeches by TOAD during the evening.)

ADDRESS. . . BY TOAD

SYNOPSIS—Our Prison System—the Waterways of Old England—Horse-dealing,

and how to deal—Property, its rights and its duties—Back to the Land—A

Typical English Squire.

SONG. . . . BY TOAD.

(Composed by himself.)

OTHER COMPOSITIONS. BY TOAD

will be sung in the course of the evening by the. . . COMPOSER.

The idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the

letters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that

there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring

timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentlemen. Toad

swaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous

evening, very respectful and anxious to please. He patted him on the

head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to

cut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked

to come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling

for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn’t; and the poor weasel seemed

really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission.

When the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and

breezy after a morning on the river, the Mole, whose conscience had

been pricking him, looked doubtfully at Toad, expecting to find him

sulky or depressed. Instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the

Mole began to suspect something; while the Rat and the Badger exchanged

significant glances.

As soon as the meal was over, Toad thrust his paws deep into his

trouser-pockets, remarked casually, “Well, look after yourselves, you

fellows! Ask for anything you want!” and was swaggering off in the

direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two

for his coming speeches, when the Rat caught him by the arm.

Toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away;

but when the Badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see

that the game was up. The two animals conducted him between them into

the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the

door, and put him into a chair. Then they both stood in front of him,

while Toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and

ill-humour.

“Now, look here, Toad,” said the Rat. “It’s about this Banquet, and

very sorry I am to have to speak to you like this. But we want you to

understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no

speeches and no songs. Try and grasp the fact that on this occasion

we’re not arguing with you; we’re just telling you.”

Toad saw that he was trapped. They understood him, they saw through

him, they had got ahead of him. His pleasant dream was shattered.

“Mayn’t I sing them just one _little_ song?” he pleaded piteously.

“No, not _one_ little song,” replied the Rat firmly, though his heart

bled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed Toad.

“It’s no good, Toady; you know well that your songs are all conceit and

boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise

and—and—well, and gross exaggeration and—and——”

“And gas,” put in the Badger, in his common way.

“It’s for your own good, Toady,” went on the Rat. “You know you _must_

turn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to

begin; a sort of turning-point in your career. Please don’t think that

saying all this doesn’t hurt me more than it hurts you.”

Toad remained a long while plunged in thought. At last he raised his

head, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features.

“You have conquered, my friends,” he said in broken accents. “It was,

to be sure, but a small thing that I asked—merely leave to blossom and

expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the

tumultuous applause that always seems to me—somehow—to bring out my

best qualities. However, you are right, I know, and I am wrong. Hence

forth I will be a very different Toad. My friends, you shall never have

occasion to blush for me again. But, O dear, O dear, this is a hard

world!”

And, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with

faltering footsteps.

“Badger,” said the Rat, “_I_ feel like a brute; I wonder what _you_

feel like?”

“O, I know, I know,” said the Badger gloomily. “But the thing had to be

done. This good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be

respected. Would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and

jeered at by stoats and weasels?”

“Of course not,” said the Rat. “And, talking of weasels, it’s lucky we

came upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with Toad’s

invitations. I suspected something from what you told me, and had a

look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. I confiscated the

lot, and the good Mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up

plain, simple invitation cards.”

At last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and Toad, who on

leaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there,

melancholy and thoughtful. His brow resting on his paw, he pondered

long and deeply. Gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to

smile long, slow smiles. Then he took to giggling in a shy,

self-conscious manner. At last he got up, locked the door, drew the

curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and

arranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of

them, swelling visibly. Then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting

himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience

that his imagination so clearly saw.

TOAD’S LAST LITTLE SONG!

The Toad—came—home!

There was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,

There was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls,

When the Toad—came—home!

When the Toad—came—home!

There was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,

There was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,

When the Toad—came—home!

Bang! go the drums!

The trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting,

And the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting,

As the—Hero—comes!

Shout—Hoo-ray!

And let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud,

In honour of an animal of whom you’re justly proud,

For it’s Toad’s—great—day!

He sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he

had done, he sang it all over again.

Then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.

Then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the

middle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of

his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to

greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room.

All the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to

congratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his

cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but Toad only smiled faintly,

and murmured, “Not at all!” Or, sometimes, for a change, “On the

contrary!” Otter, who was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an

admiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had

he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round Toad’s

neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but

Toad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he

disengaged himself, “Badger’s was the mastermind; the Mole and the

Water Rat bore the brunt of the fighting; I merely served in the ranks

and did little or nothing.” The animals were evidently puzzled and

taken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and Toad felt, as he

moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he

was an object of absorbing interest to every one.

The Badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a

great success. There was much talking and laughter and chaff among the

animals, but through it all Toad, who of course was in the chair,

looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on

either side of him. At intervals he stole a glance at the Badger and

the Rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with

their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. Some of

the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got

whispering to each other that things were not so amusing as they used

to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table

and cries of “Toad! Speech! Speech from Toad! Song! Mr. Toad’s song!”

But Toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest,

and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and

by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough

to appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this

dinner was being run on strictly conventional lines.

He was indeed an altered Toad!

After this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so

rudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment,

undisturbed by further risings or invasions. Toad, after due

consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and

locket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler’s daughter

with a letter that even the Badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and

appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked

and compensated for all his pains and trouble. Under severe compulsion

from the Badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought

out and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though Toad

kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of Fate,

sent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn’t tell a real

gentleman when they saw one. The amount involved, it was true, was not

very burdensome, the gipsy’s valuation being admitted by local

assessors to be approximately correct.

Sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would

take a stroll together in the Wild Wood, now successfully tamed so far

as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully

they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would

bring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing,

“Look, baby! There goes the great Mr. Toad! And that’s the gallant

Water Rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o’ him! And yonder comes

the famous Mr. Mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!”

But when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they

would quiet them by telling how, if they didn’t hush them and not fret

them, the terrible grey Badger would up and get them. This was a base

libel on Badger, who, though he cared little about Society, was rather

fond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect.