Paws and Whiskers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  No dog sends that signal unless the need is desperate. And no dog who hears it ever fails to respond.

  Within a few minutes, the news of the stolen puppies was travelling across England, and every dog who heard at once turned detective. Dogs living in London’s Underworld (hard-bitten characters; also hard-biting) set out to explore sinister alleys where dog thieves lurk. Dogs in Pet Shops hastened to make quite sure all puppies offered for sale were not Dalmatians in disguise. And dogs who could do nothing else swiftly handed on the news, spreading it through London and on through the suburbs, and on, on to the open country: ‘Help! Help! Help! Fifteen Dalmatian puppies stolen. Send news to Pongo and Missis Pongo, of Regent’s Park, London. End of Message.’

  Pongo and Missis hoped all this would be happening. But all they really knew was that they had made contact with the dogs near enough to answer them, and that these dogs would be standing by, at twilight the next evening, to relay any news that had come along.

  One Great Dane, over towards Hampstead, was particularly encouraging.

  ‘I have a chain of friends all over England,’ he said, in his great, booming bark. ‘And I will be on duty day and night. Courage, courage, O Dogs of Regent’s Park!’

  It was almost dark now. And the Dearlys were suggesting – very gently – that they should be taken home. So after a few last words, ‘What about coming home, boy?’ For the first time in his life, Pongo jerked his head from Mr Dearly’s hand, then went on standing stock still. And at last the Great Dane spoke again, booming triumphantly through the gathering dusk.

  ‘Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo. News! News at last! Stand by to receive details.’

  A most wonderful thing had happened. Just as the Great Dane had been about to sign off, a Pomeranian with a piercing yap had got through to him. She had heard it from a Poodle who had heard it from a Boxer who had heard it from a Pekinese. Dogs of almost every known breed had helped to carry the news – and a great many dogs of unknown breed (none the worse for that and all of them bright as buttons). In all, four hundred and eighty dogs had relayed the message, which had travelled over sixty miles as the dog barks. Each dog had given the ‘Urgent’ signal, which had silenced all gossiping dogs. Not that many dogs were merely gossiping that night; almost all the Twilight Barking had been about the missing puppies.

  This was the strange story that now came through to Pongo and Missis: some hours earlier, an elderly English Sheepdog, living on a farm in a remote Suffolk village, had gone for an afternoon amble. He knew all about the missing puppies and had just been discussing them with the tabby cat at the farm. She was a great friend of his.

  Some little way from the village, on a lonely heath, was an old house completely surrounded by an unusually high wall. Two brothers named Saul and Jasper Baddun lived there, but were merely caretakers for the real owner. The place had an evil reputation – no local dog would have dreamed of putting its nose inside the tall iron gates. In any case, these gates were always kept locked.

  It so happened that the Sheepdog’s walk took him past this house. He quickened his pace, having no wish to meet either of the Badduns. And at that moment, something came sailing out over the high wall.

  It was a bone, the Sheepdog saw with pleasure; but not a bone with meat on it, he noted with disgust. It was an old, dry bone, and on it were some peculiar scratches. The scratches formed letters. And the letters were S.O.S.

  Someone was asking for help! Someone behind the tall wall and the high, chained gates! The Sheepdog barked a low, curious bark. He was answered by a high, shrill bark. Then he heard a yelp, as if some dog had been cuffed. The Sheepdog barked again, saying: ‘I’ll do all I can.’ Then he picked up the bone in his teeth and raced back to the farm.

  Once home, he showed the bone to the tabby cat and asked her help. Then, together, they hurried to the lonely house. At the back, they found a tree whose branches reached over the wall. The cat climbed the tree, went along its branches, and then leapt to a tree the other side of the wall.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ barked the Sheepdog. ‘Remember those Baddun brothers are villains.’

  The cat clawed her way down, backwards, to the ground, then hurried through the overgrown shrubbery. Soon she came to an old brick wall which enclosed a stable-yard. From behind the wall came whimperings and snufflings. She leapt to the top of the wall and looked down.

  The next second, one of the Baddun brothers saw her and threw a stone at her. She dodged it, jumped from the wall and ran for her life. In two minutes she was safely back with the Sheepdog.

  ‘They’re there!’ she said triumphantly. ‘The place is seething with Dalmatian puppies!’

  The Sheepdog was a formidable Twilight Barker. Tonight, with the most important news in Dogdom to send out, he surpassed himself. And so the message travelled, by way of farm dogs and house dogs, great dogs and small dogs. Sometimes a bark would carry half a mile or more, sometimes it would only need to carry a few yards. One sharp-eared Cairn saved the chain from breaking by picking up a bark from nearly a mile away, and then almost bursting herself getting it on to the dog next door. Across miles and miles of country, across miles and miles of suburbs, across a network of London streets the chain held firm; from the depths of Suffolk to the top of Primrose Hill – where Pongo and Missis, still as statues, stood listening, listening.

  ‘Puppies found in lonely house. S.O.S. on old bone–’ Missis could not take it all in. But Pongo missed nothing. There were instructions on reaching the village, suggestions for the journey, offers of hospitality on the way. And the dog chain was standing by to take a message back to the pups – the Sheepdog would bark it over the wall in the dead of night.

  At first Missis was too excited to think of anything to say, but Pongo barked clearly: ‘Tell them we’re coming! Tell them we start tonight! Tell them to be brave!’

  Then Missis found her voice: ‘Give them all our love! Tell Patch to take care of Cadpig! Tell Lucky not to be too daring! Tell Roly Poly to keep out of mischief!’ She would have sent a message to every one of the fifteen pups if Pongo had not whispered: ‘That’s enough, dear. We mustn’t make it too complicated. Let the Great Dane start work now.’

  So they signed off and there was a sudden silence. And then, though not quite so loudly, they heard the Great Dane again. But this time he was not barking towards them. What they heard was their message, starting on its way to Suffolk.

  JUST WILLIAM

  by Richmal Crompton

  I’ve always loved reading aloud. When my daughter Emma could easily read for herself, we still carried on our special reading-aloud sessions, working our way through many wonderful children’s classics. The William books were always a great success. They’re a joy to read aloud because they’re so funny – William’s speeches are all fantastic. I pride myself on my eleven-year-old boy impersonation!

  The following chapter is the memorable story of how William acquires his dog Jumble – an animal with almost as much personality as his owner.

  JUST WILLIAM

  Jumble

  William’s father carefully placed the bow and arrow at the back of the library cupboard, then closed the cupboard door and locked it in grim silence. William’s eyes, large, reproachful, and gloomy, followed every movement.

  ‘Three windows and Mrs Clive’s cat all in one morning,’ began Mr Brown sternly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit that cat,’ said William earnestly. ‘I didn’t – honest. I wouldn’t go round teasin’ cats. They get so mad at you, cats do. It jus’ got in the way. I couldn’t stop shootin’ in time. An’ I didn’t mean to break those windows. I wasn’t tryin’ to hit them. I’ve not hit anything I was trying to hit yet,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’ve not got into it. It’s jus’ a knack. It jus’ wants practice.’

  Mr Brown pocketed the key.

  ‘It’s a knack you aren’t likely to acquire by practice on this instrument,’ he said drily.

  William wandered out into the garden and
looked sadly up at the garden wall. But the Little Girl Next Door was away and could offer no sympathy, even if he climbed up to his precarious seat on the top. Fate was against him in every way. With a deep sigh he went out of the garden gate and strolled down the road disconsolately, hands in pockets.

  Life stretched empty and uninviting before him without his bow and arrow. And Ginger would have his bow and arrow, Henry would have his bow and arrow, Douglas would have his bow and arrow. He, William, alone would be a thing apart, a social outcast, a boy without a bow and arrow; for bows and arrows were the fashion. If only one of the others would break a window or hit a silly old cat that hadn’t the sense to keep out of the way.

  He came to a stile leading into a field and took his seat upon it dejectedly, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Life was simply not worth living.

  ‘A rotten old cat!’ he said aloud. ‘A rotten old cat! – and didn’t even hurt it! – it made a fuss – jus’ out of spite, screamin’ and carryin’ on! And windows – as if glass wasn’t cheap enough – and easy to put in! I could – I could mend ’em myself – if I’d got the stuff to do it. I—’ He stopped. Something was coming down the road. It came jauntily with a light, dancing step, fox-terrier ears cocked, retriever-nose raised, collie-tail wagging, slight dachshund body aquiver with the joy of life.

  It stopped in front of William with a glad bark of welcome, then stood eager, alert, friendly, a mongrel unashamed.

  ‘Rats! Fetch ’em out!’ said William idly.

  It gave a little spring and waited, front paws apart and crouching, a waggish eye upraised to William. William broke off a stick from the hedge and threw it. His visitor darted after it with a shrill bark, took it up, worried it, threw it into the air, caught it, growled at it, finally brought it back to William and panting, eager, unmistakably grinning, begging for more.

  William’s drooping spirits revived. He descended from his perch and examined its collar. It bore the one word ‘Jumble’.

  ‘Hey! Jumble!’ he called, setting off down the road.

  Jumble jumped up around him, dashed off, dashed back, worried his boots, jumped up at him again in wild, eager friendship, dashed off again, begged for another stick, caught it, rolled over with it, growled at it, then chewed it up and laid the remains at William’s feet.

  ‘Good ole chap!’ said William encouragingly. ‘Good ole Jumble! Come on, then.’

  Jumble came on. William walked through the village with a self-conscious air of proud yet careless ownership, while Jumble gambolled round his heels.

  Every now and then he would turn his head and whistle imperiously, to recall his straying protégé from the investigation of ditches and roadside. It was a whistle, commanding, controlling, yet withal careless, that William had sometimes practised privately in readiness for the blissful day when Fate should present him with a real live dog of his own. So far Fate, in the persons of his father and mother, had been proof against all his pleading.

  William passed a blissful morning. Jumble swam in the pond, he fetched sticks out of it, he shook himself violently all over William, he ran after a hen, he was chased by a cat, he barked at a herd of cows, he pulled down a curtain that was hanging out in a cottage garden to dry – he was mischievous, affectionate, humorous, utterly irresistible – and he completely adopted William. William would turn a corner with a careless swagger and then watch breathlessly to see if the rollicking, frisky little figure would follow, and always it came tearing eagerly after him.

  William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a newspaper. Mr Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.

  ‘William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I do wish you’d be on time, and I do wish you’d brush your hair before you come to table.’

  William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.

  ‘No, Ethel dear, I didn’t know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear, do sit still. Have they moved in yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ethel, ‘they’ve taken it furnished for two months, I think. Oh, my goodness, just look at William’s hands!’

  William put his hands under the table and glared at her.

  ‘Go and wash your hands, dear,’ said Mrs Brown patiently.

  For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William’s mother. It had taught her patience.

  William rose reluctantly.

  ‘They’re not dirty,’ he said in a tone of righteous indignation. ‘Well, anyway, they’ve been dirtier other times and you’ve said nothin’. I can’t always be washin’ them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an’ if you keep on washin’ it only makes them worse an’—’

  Ethel groaned and William’s father lowered his paper. William withdrew quickly but with an air of dignity.

  ‘And just look at his boots!’ said Ethel as he went. ‘Simply caked; and his stockings are soaking wet – you can see from here. He’s been right in the pond by the look of him and—’

  William heard no more. There were moments when he actively disliked Ethel.

  He returned a few minutes later, shining with cleanliness, his hair brushed back fiercely off his face.

  ‘His nails,’ murmured Ethel as he sat down.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘go on telling us about the new people. William, do hold your knife properly, dear. Yes, Ethel?’

  William finished his meal in silence, then brought forth his momentous announcement.

  ‘I’ve gotter dog,’ he said with an air of importance.

  ‘What sort of dog?’ and ‘Who gave it to you?’ said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.

  ‘No one gave it me,’ he said. ‘I jus’ got it. It began following me this morning, an’ I couldn’t get rid of it. It wouldn’t go, anyway. It followed me all round the village an’ it came home with me. I couldn’t get rid of it, anyhow.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ said Mrs Brown anxiously.

  ‘In the back garden.’

  Mr Brown folded up his paper.

  ‘Digging up my flower beds, I suppose,’ he said with despairing resignation.

  ‘He’s tied up all right,’ William assured him. ‘I tied him to the tree in the middle of the rose bed.’

  ‘The rose bed!’ groaned his father. ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘Has he had anything to eat?’ demanded Robert sternly.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, avoiding his mother’s eye. ‘I found a few bits of old things for him in the larder.’

  William’s father took out his watch and rose from the table.

  ‘Well, you’d better take it to the Police Station this afternoon,’ he said shortly.

  ‘The Police Station!’ repeated William hoarsely. ‘It’s not a lost dog. It – it jus’ doesn’t belong to anyone, at least it didn’t. Poor thing,’ he said feelingly. ‘It – it doesn’t want much to make it happy. It can sleep in my room an’ jus’ eat scraps.’

  Mr Brown went out without answering.

  ‘You’ll have to take it, you know, William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘so be quick. You know where the Police Station is, don’t you? Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said William hastily.

  A few minutes later he was walking down to the Police Station followed by the still eager Jumble, who trotted along, unconscious of his doom.

  Upon William’s face was a set, stern expression which cleared slightly as he neared the Police Station. He stood at the gate and looked at Jumble. Jumble placed his front paws ready for a game and wagged his tail.

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘here you are. Here’s the Police Station.’

  Jumble gave a shrill bark. ‘Hurry up with that stick or that race, whichever you like,’ he seemed to say.

  ‘Well, go in,’ said William, nod
ding his head in the direction of the door.

  Jumble began to worry a big stone in the road. He rolled it along with his paws, then ran after it with fierce growls.

  ‘Well, it’s the Police Station,’ said William. ‘Go in if you want.’

  With that he turned on his heel and walked home, without one backward glance. But he walked slowly, with many encouraging ‘Hey! Jumbles’ and many short commanding whistles. And Jumble trotted happily at his heels. There was no one in the garden, there was no one in the hall, there was no one on the stairs. Fate was for once on William’s side.

  William appeared at the tea table well washed and brushed, wearing that air of ostentatious virtue that those who knew him best connected with his most daring coups.

  ‘Did you take that dog to the Police Station, William?’ said William’s father.

  William coughed.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ he said meekly with his eyes upon his plate.

  ‘What did they say about it?’

  ‘Nothing, Father.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better spend the evening replanting those rose trees,’ went on his father bitterly.

  ‘And William gave him a whole steak and kidney pie,’ murmured Mrs Brown. ‘Cook will have to make another for tomorrow.’

  William coughed again politely, but did not raise his eyes from his plate.

  ‘What is that noise?’ said Ethel. ‘Listen!’

  They sat, listening intently. There was a dull grating sound as of the scratching of wood.

  ‘It’s upstairs,’ said Robert with the air of a Sherlock Holmes.

  Then came a shrill, impatient bark.

  ‘It’s a dog!’ said the four of them simultaneously. ‘It’s William’s dog.’