Toad Triumphant (22 page)

“Is it a very long way?” said Grandson when they had finally gone.

“It is only as far as you wish to make it seem,” said the Mole. “Now let us sit in the sun for a while —”

“And you can tell me a tale of the River Bank.” The Mole laughed and said, “You must have heard them all by now, if not from me then from Ratty, for you have done nothing but make us tell you of our home, so really I —”

“Just one more then?”

The Mole looked at the shadows in the trees, and the distant mountains, and heard the far—off roar of water, and fancied he heard in it a familiar laugh, a loud and braying laugh, a smug self-centred laugh.

“I have told you about Mr Toad, have I not?”

“A few things,” said Grandson.

“Did I ever tell you about the time he stole a motorcar and was sent to gaol?”

“No!” exclaimed Grandson with delight. “Mr Toad is surely very clever and cunning, is he not?”

“No, he is not,” said the Mole severely; “he is very foolish, very vain, very conceited and very mischievous indeed.”

“But for all that you like him, Mole, don’t you?” said Grandson impulsively.

“For all that,” said the Mole, “I
do
like him, and so I will tell you how the infamous business with the motorcar began, and led to Toad’s first acquaintance with the Town’s gaol.”

· X ·

In Loco Parentis

Barely had Toad begun his dash for freedom from His Lordship’s House, the Madame’s son in tow, than he discovered that some unkind person had unleashed His Lordship’s hounds after them. He had had dealings with those particular hounds before, and knew them to be slavering and relentless. On the last occasion, since he was not a fox, they had not torn him apart. But this time, as he led the young Count across the lawn, he could not rely on such good fortune.

He had been heading for the creek where he had hidden his launch, but when he heard that baleful baying and barking he rapidly changed tack and made straight for the River. There, he hoped, the hounds might lose their scent as he and his young friend took to the water and liberty.

It was a close-run thing, and Toad and his ward were but inches from being brought down by the first of the hounds when they reached the River and jumped inelegantly in. The current swept them off downstream and out of harm’s way as the confused hounds ran back and forth, wondering what to do.

“Ha, ha!” cried Toad as he floated along. “Have I not fooled them all again? Young sir, you may relax, for you shall be safe with me!”

The Count might very well have wondered about that, seeing as he was now mid-river, cold, and could not swim nearly so well as he could fence but — well — he had to admit that so far it was all much more fun than the chilling formality of the High Judge’s House.

“Where are we ‘going, monsieur?” he asked.

“To my motor-launch,” gulped Toad happily; “so keep to the right-hand side of the River.”

Of their watery arrival at the creek, of their entanglement with what was left of the barbed wire the High Judge had sought to seal its entrance with, and of their eventual clambering aboard the hidden vessel, little need be said. It took longer than Toad expected, and was a good deal colder too, and night had fallen by the time they were dry and safe.

All around them they could hear shouting and see searchlights shining about, and later in the night the ominous sight of a boatload of constables rowing up and down the River beyond the creek’s mouth looking for them, and perhaps even dragging the river bottom for their corpses.

“It’s a rum go this one,” they heard a constable say “but with a high-class criminal like Mr Toad you can never tell. One thing’s sure, it might be better for ‘im if ‘e is drownded now, for if ‘e’s not and ‘e’s caught, ‘e’ll only be ‘anged later.”

“Aye, along with that rascal of a French accomplice.”

“What are they saying?” whispered the Count whose grasp of constable talk was limited. He was now cold and shivering and not sure any more that this enterprise was quite sensible.

“They are saying,” said Toad, who was fortifying himself with a brandy “that I am a very well-known gentleman and you are a little-known Count.”

“What shall we do now, monsieur?”

Thus far Toad’s good fortune had not failed him, and for once, perhaps inspired by love for the Count’s mother, he showed very considerable resource and common sense.

“No good trying to leave here now, for they’ll only hear us. We’ll cast off at first light and row silently away up this little stream. It would be unwise to start the engine till we’re well out of earshot.”

He supped some more brandy and was about to turn in when a strange thought occurred to him, one so unusual that it almost took his breath away. It was brought on by the pathetic sound of the chattering of the Count’s teeth. He sat up in surprise and shook his head as if by doing so the thought might be shaken free and take flight elsewhere.

The thought he had concerned the youth and not himself and it was this: that this youngster was shivering with cold and seemed decidedly unhappy and needed —well — needed something more than optimism and the instruction to turn in.

“Here,” said Toad, not at all unkindly “you sound very cold. Can’t see you in this dark, but I can hear you and it upsets me.”

Then he searched about a bit for a valise of spare clothes Prendergast had put on board in case of emergencies, and found within it one of his old tweed suits.

“Wrap this jacket around you to keep warm. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Toad,” said the shivering youth, struggling into the garment that was several sizes too large, but no less welcome for that, “I am obliged. My mother ‘as said you are very famous. For what?”

“O, for a great many things,” said Toad grandly “and I’ll tell you all about them in the morning. Now, please go to sleep, that I might do the same.”

Toad could not sleep, however, and instead found himself lying awake, listening as the lad’s gentle breathing grew deeper, and then deeper and slower still. Then, when the stars came out, and the moon began to rise, Toad found he had no wish to sleep, though the day had been long and onerous, for there was something strangely pleasant in finding himself the watchman over a youth such as he had once been.

Very famous, was he? Well, perhaps he was — no, he
certainly
was — but Toad was suddenly not so sure that dragging this youth into his present misfortunes was admirable at all. It was all very well for
him
to get wet and cold, ride roughshod over others and break the law, but this young toad was —”Monsieur! I want a drink of water!”

The lad sat up suddenly in the moonlight, the jacket about him, and Toad found himself fumbling around in the cupboards of his craft for a decanter of water he had seen earlier, and which the excellent Prendergast daily renewed.

“Now!”
said the spoilt and demanding Count.

“Coming,” said Toad, trying to quiet the petulant voice, and rather surprised that when he had filled a glass the youth expected him to feed it to him. When he had finished, and the youth had immediately fallen back to sleep, Toad was very surprised to find himself feeling not irritable and ill—used, but filled with amused affection.

He took up a place near the sleeping youth, and continued to watch the stars and moon, and thought of many things, not least of which was when he was young, long long before, when his father was alive and Toad Hall filled with such life and fun —”Monsieur, monsieur! I am hungry. Get me my breakfast now!”

Toad was wakened by this peremptory command and discovered that warm and glowing though his feelings towards the youth had been in the night, they were less so, now that morning had come. He had a headache, he ‘saw it was a good deal past dawn, and he heard once more the baying of hounds as they resumed the manhunt.

“No time for breakfast,” he cried, “for we must be up and away.”

“But always I ‘ave breakfast before the servants bathe me,” said the youth. “I ‘ave it now before we go.”

“We go first and have it later,” insisted Toad, “otherwise the only place we’ll be going to is gaol.”

“Non, non, non!”
said the boy very angrily thumping the cabin wall with his clenched fist.

“Sssh!” urged Toad.

“I shall go outside and shout for my breakfast if you do not give it to me now!” said his fellow fugitive, whom ‘Toad was rapidly beginning to think might be a very loathsome and spoilt youth after all. But he also saw that he was very determined and would no doubt make a great deal of noise if he did not get his way.

“Well,” grumbled Toad, sorting through the galley’s cupboards, “I suppose I might make some tea without milk while you eat these dried biscuits, but we must be quick.”

“I do not drink your tea, and I do not eat food for dogs.”

“Ah!” said Toad, irritated and increasingly alarmed. To the baying of the hounds had been added the shouts of rough-sounding men, more than likely a mixture of constables and gardeners, and Toad wanted to get away more than ever.

“I drink coffee with two croissants, hot but not too hot.”

“Coffee?” said the bemused Toad. “Finest Ceylon tea is the best I can do, and perhaps if you put some of this salmon and shrimp paste upon those biscuits —”

“Psah!” said the vile youth.

“— or this delightful English rolled ox tongue, which I will open and spread for you —”

“Food for cats!”

“— or, instead, a teaspoonful from this pot of Colonel Skinner’s Chutney (of extra quality and imported) then —”

“‘Orrible, monsieur.”

“— then,” continued the now thoroughly annoyed but increasingly resolute Toad, “your dried biscuits might taste a little nearer to the croissants to which you are accustomed.”

“You are a lunatic, monsieur, to suggest such a thing. I know all about English cuisine —”

“In which case,” said Toad, whose patience had finally reached its limit, “I suggest you go ashore and demand your breakfast at His Lordship’s House!”

That silenced the youth, and gave Toad opportunity to ascend to the deck and deduce that there was no time left for silent rowing. He quickly started the engine and, keeping its roar low, guided his launch out of their hiding place, and gently on up the stream, unseen if not quite unheard.

The youth remained sulking below decks, but Toad’s good humour had recovered itself, for the sun was shining, no boats, or hounds, or mounted policemen seemed to be in pursuit, and what lay ahead was freedom and adventure.

Only very much later in the morning did he stop and moor the craft, so that he might go below decks and, ignoring the wretched youth altogether, there make himself some tea, and dig into the excellent hamper of table dainties and other provisions Prendergast had provided. There was even milk of a kind — Diploma Condensed “The best for infants” — and though it tasted strange with the Ceylon tea, back on deck again, with the engine purring beneath him once more and a hot steaming tin mug of the brew in his hand, Toad could not but feel pleased with himself, and with life.

Only in mid-afternoon did the young Count’s resolve to sulk finally break, and he asked that he might have a little tea (“since it is tea time”) and a few biscuits (“to settle my stomach”). Toad had the sense to provide them without comment. In any case, he felt sorry for the boy whose eyes were red-rimmed from crying.