King of the Vagabonds (8 page)

Molly always took longest over her meal. She was slow at everything and eating was no exception. Her portion of meat was, of course, the largest and the chunks were
bigger than those given the cats. Out of the corner of one eye Sammy was watching the old dog’s progress. He knew that he could not carry much meat at one time to his new friends; only as much as his jaws could hold. It would be difficult to pick up many of his own small pieces and make the journey with them – but a few of Molly’s would be much more worthwhile. If only Stella and Josephine would disappear, he might be able to divert the dog and make a quick raid on her plate.

‘You don’t seem very hungry, Sammy,’ his mother suddenly remarked. He froze as if caught in a guilty act.

‘Just taking my time, that’s all,’ he answered unconvincingly. ‘No need to wait for me.’

‘We’re not waiting – don’t flatter yourself,’ Josephine answered sharply. ‘It’s wet outside.’ She guessed her brother was up to something and was annoyed that she had been unable to discover what it was.

‘What about the shed?’ Sammy tried.

‘It’s more comfortable in here,’ Stella answered this time.

Now Mrs Lambert noticed that Sammy seemed to be off his food. She watched him with concern. Meanwhile Molly chewed slowly and placidly. Sammy could see that he would have to make his move in front of them all.

There was a particularly large, succulent-looking chunk of meat in Molly’s dish which she seemed in no hurry to take. Sammy had his eyes on that piece. He continued to eat his own meal in a half-hearted way, trying to decide whether he could snatch the chunk before Molly got to it, and then make his escape through the door. And if so, could he carry it all the way to the waste ground? Well, he would have to try. A moment came when Molly turned her head away as she chewed. Sammy ran to her bowl, snatched up the selected piece of meat, dropped it,
got a better grip on it and dashed out into the rain.

Mrs Lambert was so astonished at this behaviour that it was a while before Sammy heard her voice, calling him back. It was not without misgiving that he continued on his way, up and over the fence and into the next garden where the chickens were already roosting. He knew he had done wrong and he would have preferred to have stolen from any other creature but Molly. But he had got to prove to the vagabond cats that he was true to his word, and he hoped to be able to explain everything to Molly eventually.

Sammy was not aware that two small beady eyes watched his exit from the garden – Tiptoe saw his departure. Sammy could not have spoken to the mouse anyway: the lump of meat was in his mouth, dangling from his jaws and knocking against his chest as he ran. He reached the road very quickly. Already his coat was soaked. He paused timidly at the roadside, listening for those frightening roars of the machines which scared him out of his wits, but all appeared quiet. Sammy raced across, entered the bomb site and threaded his way through the saturated clumps of weed. He stopped, opened his mouth and let the meat fall to the wet ground.

There was a different feel about the place in the gathering darkness. Sammy sensed that something had changed since his previous visit early in the day. He waited. He had forgotten about looking for Scruff and felt uneasy. None of the cats showed up. Then at last he heard a noise – just discernible above the steady patter of rain. Sammy looked around, nervously. A plant rustled, as if lightly brushed by something moving past.

A large, powerful-looking cat, one he had not seen previously, was coming straight towards him. The animal
looked mean and hard. Its eyes glittered as it stared at the intruder, its gaze never wavering as it approached. Sammy almost fled, but something in the cat’s look kept him rooted to the spot. It was a tabby cat, but its markings were darker, blacker than Sammy’s. One of its ears was split and the tip missing, and there were other scars on its face and chest that testified to many a fight. Part of the cat’s tail was without fur. Yet, despite its marred appearance, the animal had a majestic calm about it, derived from an awareness of its supremacy and authority. Sammy knew beyond any doubt that he was facing Brute.

The cat sat down in front of him in an unhurried, almost nonchalant manner. Sammy thought he had never seen such a marvellous creature.

In a deep, throaty growl the cat spoke to him. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

Sammy gulped. His reason for coming there suddenly seemed to him quite ludicrous. Where were the other cats? He needed their backing. The dark tabby was examining the lump of meat.

‘Where did you get this?’ it enquired quietly, but there was an air of menace underlying the question. Sammy knew he would have to give a plausible account of himself.

‘I brought it here,’ he answered unsteadily.

‘You brought it here,’ repeated the cat. ‘For what purpose?’

‘For your – er – friends to eat,’ Sammy told him, realizing the reply must sound absurd.

‘My – friends, you say? What do you know about me?’ The tabby’s eyes were narrowing.

‘I – well, I don’t know anything, really,’ Sammy gabbled. ‘But you
are
Brute, aren’t you?’

The cat ignored his question. ‘Where do you come from?’ it asked, scrutinizing his coat and general appearance of well-being. ‘You’re no vagabond.’

‘I have a home,’ Sammy remarked, ‘it’s true. But I wish to follow another sort of life. The cats here came to an arrangement with me. I was to bring them food to prove my worth and, in return, they would – er – teach me their ways.’

‘A remarkable story,’ was the response. ‘And so you’ve brought your dinner with you as a token of your desire to adopt our ways?’

Put like that it does sound ridiculous,’ Sammy said hopelessly. ‘If only the other cats were here, they could explain—’

‘It seems, then, that they must have had little faith in your intention of sticking to this strange agreement.’ The dark tabby was mocking him. ‘It also seems that you have a very great deal to learn about the way we live if you think that this small piece of meat could be shared out amongst the whole company!’

‘No, no, I don’t think that,’ Sammy assured the cat, feeling that he was looking more stupid by the moment. ‘I couldn’t carry very much. It’s a long way. But I took the largest piece I could manage to – er – show I’m true to my word and—’

‘And now,’ interrupted the cat, ‘you’d better go back, I think, to wherever you came from and get some more, don’t you? There are quite a lot of us here and, since I always have first choice, even this piece won’t be of any use to those you term “my friends”.’

Sammy’s heart sank. ‘But – but – there won’t be any more,’ he mumbled.

‘Won’t be any more?’ echoed the tabby. ‘And you think this derisory morsel is a sufficient mark of your
esteem for the starving creatures you expect to teach you all their skills and cunning?’

Sammy lapsed into silence. He wished he had never returned. These animals were a separate race from those like himself, Stella and Josephine. Why had he thought he could enter their world? Why could not he be content with. . . . His racing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Pinkie.

‘So you did come back, Sammy?’ she said, and Sammy thought – hoped – that he could detect just a suggestion of pleasure at his return.

‘Sammy?’ muttered the dark tabby. ‘Sammy, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Brute,’ Pinkie informed the young male.

‘I know,’ said Sammy.

‘How do you know? Did I say so?’ growled the King Cat.

‘I – I – guessed,’ Sammy answered.

‘He’s brought us all an offering,’ said Brute to the little white cat. ‘But I’m afraid only I shall appreciate its flavour.’ And he grabbed the lump of meat, chewed it once or twice and then swallowed it hastily.

At once, as if this were a signal, all Sammy’s acquaintances of the morning began to appear. They looked about and murmured to each other, glancing in Sammy’s direction in an accusing way. They were disappointed not to find a scrap or two of Sammy’s rich fare left for themselves. Sammy felt he had let them down.

‘I could try again tomorrow,’ he offered.

‘What’s the good?’ returned Mottle sourly. ‘You could never bring enough for us all to taste.’

Sammy had no answer to that. But Brute had. He had been doing some thinking.

‘This sort of food is no luxury for you, I suppose?’ he asked the young cat grudgingly.

‘Oh no,’ Sammy answered. ‘It’s my normal diet.’

‘Well, how very fortunate for you. And how do you think you would survive here on our starvation rations?’

‘I – I’d do the best I could,’ said Sammy. ‘I’d do as you all do. I’d soon learn. And you haven’t starved, have you?’

‘It would seem like starvation to you, compared with your feasting,’ Brute remarked. ‘And, let me tell you, some of us
have
starved. All of us you see here – we’re just the remnants.’

‘The – remnants?’

‘There used to be more of us,’ Pinkie explained. ‘I told you about my brothers and sisters, and there were others, too.’

Sammy had not the experience to understand. In his life food had been brought whenever he had wanted it. Shelter and warmth, too, were taken for granted. How could he comprehend the hardships, the struggle for survival, that these animals faced every day of their lives? The fasting, the discomfort, the monotonous, exhausting battle with the seasons?

‘At least let me try,’ he said plaintively. He shook his soaking fur, scattering a spray of raindrops around him. The other cats, by contrast, took no notice of the wet. They accepted it as they had to accept everything else which was beyond their control, with a sort of dumb resignation.

‘No, you could never break free,’ Brute growled scathingly.

‘How do you know if you won’t put me to the test?’ Sammy remonstrated.

Brute had him where he wanted him. ‘Right, Tabby
with the Silky Fur,’ he said, using the words in a disparaging way, ‘let’s see how long it takes you to lose your well-groomed appearance. We’ll find out how vain you are. And as for us—’ he looked round at the vagabonds ‘—we’ll smarten ourselves up a little. Then we can meet each other halfway.’

‘How?’

‘How?’

‘How will we do that?’ cried the cats all at once.

‘Easy,’ said Brute. ‘We swap places.’

A stunned silence ensued. Then the vagabond cats began to talk and cry out excitedly. They saw they were in for some real fun.

Sammy, however, asked with misgiving, ‘What do you mean – swap places?’ Already he was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable.

‘Can’t you guess?’ Brute sneered. ‘You eat our food. We eat yours.’

The full implication of what he had set in train had not struck Sammy before. Now he shuddered visibly. ‘But – but – it’s impossible,’ he wailed. ‘There are too many of you. And what about my mistress? She doesn’t know you. Why would she feed you?’

‘Because she’ll think she’s feeding
you
, won’t she, simple Sammy?’ Brute answered.

‘But I’m only one cat,’ protested Sammy. ‘And you’re – you’re—’

‘Rather more than one,’ Scruff said comically.

‘We take it in turns,’ Brute said with feigned patience, as if talking to an idiot. ‘Each day a different cat has your food. You leave it – we eat it. And each day we bring you something in return from
our
larder.’

The cats were highly amused. It was the perfect plan. They could not stop chattering. Sammy could only stare
at them. He was speechless. It was quite preposterous. How could all this go on under the noses of Stella, Josephine and Molly, let alone their mistress?

‘It won’t work,’ he muttered at last. ‘It can’t work.’

‘Why not?’ Brute growled. For the first time he sounded really angry.

‘It – it – just won’t,’ Sammy mewed. ‘There are other pets in my mistress’s keeping, and we’re fed together. How do I get round that?’

‘Up to you,’ said Brute. ‘You’ll have to exercise your ingenuity, if you’ve got any. And if you haven’t, you wouldn’t survive here for very long. So it’ll be a real test for you, won’t it?’

Sammy was horrified. What could he do? He saw Pinkie looking at him. In her eyes was a challenge. Sammy turned away miserably. For the second time he realized he was no match for these creatures. Why had he undertaken this crazy venture? It was too late to back out now. Yet there was no one he could turn to for advice, since the whole business had to be conducted in secrecy. He crept away through the pelting rain. A voice called him back. It was Brute, of course.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’

‘I – home, I suppose.’

‘Where’s home?’

Sammy explained.

‘Oh, so you’re from that cosy quarter? The garden with the shed, you say? Simple. Tomorrow evening, then, you keep watch. One of us will be along; soon as it’s dark. Don’t forget!’

How could he forget? Sammy wandered away, oblivious now of the wet. He scarcely paused at the roadside before running across, heedless of danger. He could only think of Stella, Josephine and Molly and what they would say about his stealing the meat. And then, worse
still, he had to think of a plan for the next evening. If he did not, there would be trouble of a sort he dared not contemplate. This was the result of his meddling. Now he had started something he could not control. As he went past the chicken run towards his home fence he stopped abruptly. He could hardly bear to re-enter his own garden. Something broke into his thoughts – a sound, slight but insistent. After a while he realized what it was: the squeaking of a mouse. Tiptoe was calling him.

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