Toad Triumphant

by William Horwood

  “‘E be a real foreign rascal, that’s what ‘e be!” roared the farmer before turning to Toad.

  “Husband, dear, do not treat the old gentleman roughly for ‘e is”

  “O, I know what ‘e is, right enough, ‘e be a scoundrel and the only thing that stops me from giving ‘im the proper drubbin’ ‘e deserves is that at least ‘e baint stooped so low as to pretend to be that good and worthy gentleman, that onribble gentleman wot done us all a favour a few years back and fooled that even worse scoundrel the ‘igh Judge into giving ‘im a bed for the night.”

  This was rather a long speech, and it was made at some speed and with considerable passion, and Toad was not quite sure he understood the gist of it, except that in some backhanded way it referred to himself.

  “You mean — ?” began Toad, sensing some advantage to be taken in all this.

  “‘E means, sir — and I do beg pardon for my husband and his rough Lathbury ways — that it wouldn’t have gone well for you if you ‘ad pretended to be Mr Toad of Toad Hall, who is very well regarded in these parts since e cocked a snook at our landlord the High Judge and —”

  “But I am Toad of Toad Hall, and it is from the High Judge that I am once more a fugitive and for which reason I need your help,” spluttered Toad, realizing too late that had he said who he was at the beginning he would have got all he wanted and a lot more as well without the need of the deception and posturing of the past few days.

  “There you are, wife, what did I say?” roared the enraged farmer. “‘E be the vagabond he looks, and is so duplicitous as ‘e’s claiming now to be Mr Toad hissen!”

  The wife screamed and grabbed the nearest broom while the daughter, weeping at the deception she felt she had suffered, took up a copper frying pan, and all three drove the two down to the River and threw them in the water.

  “You never come here no more!” cried the farmer.

  “Deceiver!” cried the wife.

  “Toads!” wept the daughter, and they all went their way.

  Once the three had gone, Toad and the Count clambered up the bank once more, boarded their boat again and took it a little way up-river lest they should be assaulted once more.

  “All in all,” observed the incorrigible Toad later when he had dried out a bit, and made himself a mug of tea, “that was but a small price to pay for four days’ free board and lodging. In any case, I was growing weary of the comfort of their home, and their endless female tittle-tattle. It’s the freedom of the river once again for us, to go where we will, and live as we must!”

  The Count, now thoroughly enjoying his life with Toad, and forced to agree that the adventures of the past few days were infinitely preferable to the tedium of the stately aristocratic homes to which he was used, laughed merrily.

  “But,” said Toad a good deal later, “we must realize that this cannot go on much longer. The launch is running out of fuel, and I have very little money. I should not be surprised if that wretched and mean-spirited farmer reports us to the police, not realizing that I am who I say I am — or that it will be the real heroic Toad, on the run merely because of a crime passionnel, for which in your excellent and civilized country there is no punishment, whom he will be turning in.

  “Either we use our cunning and cleverness to get the launch refuelled and victualled, and proceed further upstream and out of harm’s way or we sell it and purchase some other means of transport!”

  “Yes!” said Toad’s willing student.

  “And sell it for a good deal more than it is worth,” added Toad.

  “Of course,” said the foolish youth, now doomed, it seemed, to follow Toad upon his downward path.

  They proceeded slowly trusting that such fuel as they had would carry them to a place where they might find new fodder to feed the growing appetite of their deceit.

  “Ever fished?” said Toad lazily that same evening, when the effects of their last free breakfast were beginning to wear off, and hunger pangs beginning to gnaw. Suddenly dried biscuits seemed unappetizing, and he had memories of fishing with his father in the good old days.

  “Never, monsieur,” said the Count.

  “Nothing to it,” said Toad.

  And nor, strangely enough, was there.

  In addition to the rod Toad had first taken to the boat when he escaped his well-meaning friends at Toad Hall, were the rod and tackle Prendergast had stowed aboard. For bait there were worms in the bank, and lures and flies of all descriptions in the tackle box.

  Toad might not be a practical animal in many ways, but just as no boy forgets the lessons received from a piscatorial father by the riverside, of line and trace, of reel and cast, of waiting and of strike, so Toad had not forgotten. Nor had he forgotten the pleasure of watching the River glide by as evening falls, the rise of fish just out of reach, and the first call of tawny owl. Then when the last catch is in, and the rods and tackle stowed, the special joy of the campfire, and the spitted fish which, cooked and garnished with the riverside herbs, surely taste better than any meal ever tasted before.

  Such was the Count’s introduction to fishing by Toad, and as in all else, the Count proved a willing and able pupil; and by now a grateful one too. Which made Toad happier than he had been for many a long year.

  For here were pleasures simple, pleasures lawful, pleasures born not of vanity and conceit and an overweening desire to be clever at the expense of others, but pleasures fairly earned, and fairly enjoyed.

  “Monsieur Toad,” said the youth later still, his hunger satisfied better than he had ever known before, “today —this afternoon — this evening —”

  But one who had been indulged all his life now found he had no easy language with which to express happiness, nor did he yet know the words “companionship” and “peace”.

  “Mmm?” said a contented Toad.

  They said no more, but rather let the deep slow drift of the River, with the evening light and stars reflected in its surface, do all their talking for them.

  A day or two later they passed Lathbury and arrived at the infamous Hat and Boot Tavern. Their brief moment of peace was behind them, for their fuel had all but run out, and they were hungry once more.

  “There’s always money going begging in a tavern,” declared Toad, and without a thought for the consequences led in the impressionable youngster.

  A master of such situations, Toad flashed about the last sovereigns he had with him before investing in a round of drinks for the whole house, on the principle that the returns would be plentiful. Nor did he repeat the mistake he had made at the farmhouse earlier on and attempt to hide his identity — the name of Toad of Toad Hall had a good deal of ready credit in these parts.

  When he heard, as he very soon did, that the Rat and the Mole had passed that way a few weeks previously he was naturally both astonished and jubilant, for he immediately thought that they would bail him out if need be.

  “You look pleased to hear their names, sir, if I may be so bold,” said the landlord.

  “Pleased? Of course I’m pleased. Mr Rat and Mr Mole are close friends of mine and sterling fellows. Very resourceful those two, and always good to have about the place when there’s trouble and difficulty.”

  “I should think they do know a great deal about trouble and difficulty, seeing as the Pike’s ‘ad ‘em both.”

  “Aye,” added Old Tom, “they be goners, all right, no doubt about it.”

  “The Pike?” spluttered Toad. “Goners?”

  “Swallowed nearly whole, I wouldn’t wonder, one after another!”

  The landlord and his friends lost no time telling Toad about those items of clothing — hats and boots and so forth — which had drifted down past the Tavern not so long after they had set off.

  “Don’t say we didn’t warn ‘em, for we did,” said the landlord. “They’ll not ever be seen no more.”

  “My friends dead?” cried Toad, moved to tears and loud lamentations, for he had been very fond of the Rat and the Mol
e and could not bear the thought of — “You say they’ve been eaten by a pike?” he whispered.

  “The Lathbury Pike, sir. ‘Ad ‘em for supper and fed anything that was left to ‘er brood for breakfast.”

  “But — but — but I don’t believe it!” cried Toad. Nor did he, for the more he thought of the Rat and the Mole, and of their sterling qualities, of their bravery (more than his) and their good sense (more than his as well) and their common decency (O yes, they had much more of that than him) and —”No! It cannot be!” he declared, drying his tears and finding comfort in conviction.

  “I don’t suppose,” said the landlord, his eyes narrowing as he poured Toad a tankard of the Judge and Jury “seein’ as you’re a sporting gentleman, that you’d care to make a wager upon that point?”

  “Of course I would!” cried Toad boldly only thinking a moment later that he had nothing to wager with, and (speaking of common decency as he had been a moment before to himself) it might not be quite nice to wager upon the lives of friends. But then — and now Toad saw advantage in the situation, and a way of getting himself off the hook of extended credit he was caught fast upon at the Hat and Boot (whose best bedroom and parlour he now occupied), or at least of extending said credit a good few days more while he and the young Count made good their escape.

  No sooner had this train of thought run through his mind than it had been formulated by him into a clever and ingenious plan which he believed might solve all their problems .

  Without more delay he leapt upon the nearest table and cried, “I know my friends better than any here, and I’ll wager my boat against a half guinea from each one of you, that my friends Ratty and Mole are still alive and will return here within twenty-four hours!”

  “That’s a loser, Mr Toad, sir, for you know as well as we do —”

  Toad’s wretched plan was this: to wager on the return of his friends, with his launch (very much coveted by the weasels and stoats in the place) set against their money (plus the full refuelling and revictualling of his craft) .

  Toad hoped that he might string the Tavern’s regulars along like this for a few more days and then do a bunk with both the boat, by then serviceable once more, and the stake money which he had his young assistant collect in a sail bag and keep prominently upon one of the Tavern tables. It mattered not that the Rat and the Mole were unlikely to make an appearance for Toad’s plan to work. Escaping was the thing.

  “I’ll wager,” cried Toad the following evening (when the Rat and the Mole had naturally not appeared), “that they’ll be here within forty-eight hours end —”

  Which they were not, and Toad found the mood drifting dangerously towards the carnival as it became plain that he would forfeit his boat and be destitute.

  The inmates of taverns like the Hat and Boot like nothing better than to see the high and mighty, and the rich and famous, fall on hard times and notorious poverty. Toad was a good fellow, but he was quality after all and not truly one of them, so it was his own hard luck if they had eventually to turf him out upon his ear and take all that he possessed.

  “I’ll wager —” began Toad two evenings later, but all present knew he must now finally lose. Yet feeling that in addition to the boat he had all but lost to them he had given them a good deal of enjoyment as well, they began to sing “For ‘e’s a jolly good fellow!” prior to throwing him out and claiming what was theirs, and placed some very heavy, villainous-looking fellows near the door, the windows and by the chimney piece, lest Mr Toad and his assistant with him were foolish enough to try to escape.

  Suddenly a very desperate look indeed came into Toad’s eyes, and all he could think to do or say was, “Landlord, the next round’s on me!” whilst muttering an abject prayer under his breath which went something like this: “Please Ratty and Mole, I am very sorry to have taken your name in vain but I would be much obliged if you would come to my aid now as you have so often in the past.”

  “You feeling quite all right, Mr Toad?” said the landlord, winking at his mates.

  “Very well,” groaned Toad.

  “And these friends of yours, they’re on their way are they?”

  “Imminently” said Toad.

  “Monsieur,” whispered the Count, who was beginning to understand the serious nature of their plight, “will your friends really come?”

  “Of course they will!” cried Toad, taking the tankard from the landlord’s grasp and downing its contents with gusto and seeming confidence, “they have never let me down before and will not do so now!”

  How the inmates of the Hat and Boot laughed and chortled at such bravado.

  “There’s none like Mr Toad,” they cried. “So let’s sing his health once more before we throw ‘im in the water, or something worse!”

  · XI ·

  Breach of Promise

  The trying circumstances of Toad’s flight from Toad Hall in pursuit of the Madame had caused the Badger and the Otter great worry and concern, though no great surprise. Some such foolishness was only to be expected once he had begun to suffer the affliction of Love.

  “Mark my words, Otter,” the Badger had warned as they watched Toad and his boat disappear upstream, “we shall see that wretched animal in the dock once more, for he will not escape just punishment again. This is an ill day for the River Bank, and marks the moment of a decline in our general standards and reputation which may lead to no good at all. I fear that the road taken today by one such as Toad, given his strong criminal tendency can lead only to one place: the final punishment of the hangman’s noose. And there will be very little we can do about it, very little indeed.

  “It may soon be a dreadful fact that all we have left of our friend is an empty and echoing Toad Hall, and a triumphal statue which is no more than a reminder of the empty life of vanity and false pomp that he led.”

  Badger’s fears were amply confirmed all too soon, when they heard the awful news of Toad’s antics at His Lordship’s House, and his escape with the Count, and the many offences he had thereby committed. In grim confirmation of the seriousness of the matter, a posse of policemen appeared at Toad Hall to lie in wait for Toad’s return thinking he might try to steal in one night, for a change of clothes perhaps, or some general help from members of his household.

  Grim and gloomy the weeks that followed, with constables hidden in every ditch and behind every tree, each one suspicious of the River Bank residents, and the likelihood that they would help Toad if they could.

  This was made all the worse by the continuing absence of the Rat and the Mole, and the Badger retreated to his home with instructions to the Otter that he should be disturbed only when more news was received. While Prendergast, now much concerned himself, could only proceed with that matter he had promised Toad he would accomplish, which was making preparations for the Grand Opening of the new Toad Hall, set now for the last day of September.

  But how hollow and sad it felt to be ordering balloons and bunting, to be arranging marquees and catering, and to be planning fetes, jousts, and jamborees upon the estate of a master whose feet might, by the time the Opening’s due date. arrived, already be dangling three feet above the ground, and so find it a little difficult to fulfil his proper function of cutting the ribbon and beginning the celebrations.

  Yet none of this appeared in Prendergast’s eyes. ‘While the Badger stayed silent in his home, the Otter daily watched the River and roads for news, and all those other creatures along the River Bank waited with bated breath for news of Toad, and Rat and the Mole, Prendergast, the butler par excellence, continued with his duties, seemingly unperturbed.

  “It certainly looks ill for Mr Toad,” he conceded on those nights that the Otter called in and shared a glass of sherry in the butler’s pantry “but I believe that in the end he will triumph over his present troubles. I really do.” Which words the Otter tried to find comforting.

  This oppressive sense of waiting for further news that must inevitably be bad continued through August,
and finally into September, with even Prendergast beginning to accept that his arrangements for the Grand Opening on the last day of the month might need to be postponed, or cancelled altogether.

  But it was news of the Rat and the Mole that came first, and it was grim. One of the Otter’s rabbit spies came rushing to his residence with the news that broken beech twigs had come down-river in sufficient quantity and manner to leave in no doubt that this was one of the pre-arranged signals from the Rat, and one that told of danger and disarray.

  “It certainly looks bad,” said the Otter, who went immediately to see the Badger, “but we must not act hastily. I talked with Ratty of this eventuality and we agreed that the last thing anyone wants is a rescue party rushing all over the place causing panic, confusion and endangering itself. This signal tells us that they have run into difficulties, and to watch and wait for further news.”

  “We shall wait a fortnight then,” agreed the Badger.

  While the Badger and the Otter fretted for their friends, Madame d’Albert had not been idle. The truth was — or had been — that she would have been no more than flattered and amused by Toad’s protestations of love, first at Toad Hall and later at His Lordship’s House, if that had been the extent of his transactions there.

  She enjoyed Toad’s amatory antics in the same spirit as any widowed lady likes such attention, regarding swooning swains, floral gifts, and preposterous proposals of marriage from mature gentlemen who should know better as no more than her due, and a pleasant diversion from the daily toil and moil of life.

  But in the fatal moment that Toad had leapt to the defence of her son (than whom in Madame’s eyes there was no better child in the whole world, nor one more deserving of being granted every material indulgence he asked for, always provided he did not make too many demands of a more genuinely maternal kind upon one whose Artistic Muse was now her only raison d’être) her regard for Toad had taken a more serious turn.

  Not that Madame had previously desired to be wed again, for the daily practical inconvenience of a son was quite enough without adding to it the responsibilities of caring for a husband.