Mystified, the Master complied, and soon Toad’s chambers were crammed with guffawing young members of the peerage, quaffing Champagne and pelting one another with bread rolls.
The next morning, the porter knocked on the Master’s door, bearing an original research paper written by Prof. A. Toad. The Master read it with shaking hands and, overwhelmed, sank into his chair, weeping with gratitude. For Professor Toad had done it again. He’d put those Oxford men in the shade with his magnum opus, entitled “Artificial Stupidity: How to Make It, and Can It Ever Replace Natural Stupidity?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Discord and Mutiny
In which our heroes hear rumblings, and Professor Toad reveals another of his innumerable talents.
The ripening season unfurled at a stately pace. Ratty and Mole spent their days in a leisurely round of boating and swimming and basking in the sun. In the evenings, Mole frequently indulged in the solitary pleasure of a good book while the Rat alternately wrote poetry and chewed his pencil (doing, truth be told, rather more chewing than writing).
This particular afternoon, the pair was relaxing in the Rat’s burrow over a game of Snakes and Ladders when there came a ponderous knock at the door. The Mole started, annoyed, and said, “Goodness! Who could that be?” He had been just about to move his piece up the longest ladder on the board and give the Rat a good trouncing.
Ratty said, “That sounds like Badger. No one thumps on the door like old Badger.” He shuffled off to the door where, sure enough, the Badger waited.
“Hullo, you two,” Badger said, sitting down in the remaining easy chair. He looked gravely at the Mole and Rat in turn. “I suppose you haven’t heard the news?”
“What news?” said Ratty.
“The stoats and weasels,” said Badger. “There’s some rumblings about.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mole. “Rumblings of what, precisely?” He was a trifle nervous, for even though he had acquitted himself manfully at the Battle of Toad Hall, and had brandished his stick with the best of them, and had thrashed a great many weasels and pummeled any number of stoats, it was a subject of conversation any sensible, peaceful animal (such as a mole) preferred to avoid.
“Rumblings is only rumblings,” said Badger in his common, straightforward way. “That’s the trouble with ’em. A word here and a whisper there. You’ve not heard anything at all?”
“Not a smidge,” said Ratty, pouring him a cup of tea. “But surely you can’t be serious,” he said, then, seeing the look on Badger’s face, quickly amended himself. “They can’t be serious. After that hiding we gave them, I’m surprised they have the nerve to show themselves in public.”
Badger went on. “One of the hedgerow rabbits told me he’d overheard a conversation between the Chief Weasel and the Under-Stoat. Said the Under-Stoat was egging the Chief on, telling him he ought to retake Toad Hall now that Toad’s gone off to Cambridge. You saw what happened the last time he left.”
Ratty said, “But, Badger, you know how dim and undependable rabbits are, always getting things muddled up. I wouldn’t trust a one of them with my shopping list.”
“That may be so,” said Badger, “but even the dimmest creature gets things right from time to time. We can’t afford to ignore it, ’specially now that Toad’s gone.”
They stared pensively at the hearth and sipped their tea, each lost in his memories of the terrible Battle of Toad Hall.
Finally, Badger broke the silence. “We’ve got to send word to Toad. It’s time for him to come home.”
“Surely that’s going too far,” protested the Rat. “It’s only rumblings, after all.”
Badger growled, “It’s not just that. You know as well as I do it’s not natural for him to be out in the Wide World, gadding about, away from his own kind. Only trouble will come of it.”
Rat turned to Mole, saying, “What d’you think, Moly? Should we tell him he’s got to come home?”
Mole said cautiously, “Well … if it were me, I’d want to know about the rumblings, of course.”
They were interrupted by the postmouse at the door, who handed the Rat a thick envelope addressed in a familiar hand.
“Speak of the devil, and up he pops. It’s a letter from Toad, and it’s addressed to all of us.” He read aloud:
Dear Friends,
Sorry to be so lax in my correspondence, but I’ve been frightfully busy with all my research. Not too busy, however, to indulge in some light extracurricular entertainment. I am enclosing for your enjoyment a clipping from the Varsity paper with news of my latest triumph.
I remain, your friend,
Prof. Toad (PhD hon.)
Mystified, Rat extracted a bit of newspaper from the envelope and read the article aloud.
* * *
Professor Buttercup?
Crooning Don Wows All in Triple-Hankie Weeper
by
Hiram Satchel
Saturday was the long-awaited opening night of the Gilbert & Sullivan Society’s light opera HMS Pinafore. But in a dire turn of events, the chanteuse slated to sing the lead of Little Buttercup contracted laryngitis just before curtain. As luck would have it, there was one other cast member who could step in to take her place. But he—yes, he—was an untested member of the chorus. I refer to Professor Toad, who, in his spare moments, enjoys memorizing the score to popular operas. Thus, when the curtain rose, the audience was treated to the sight of the multitalented egghead stuffed into a dress and auburn wig, warbling the role of Little Buttercup.
Everyone, including this humble reviewer, predicted disaster. For one thing, the short, stout professor is not noted for his glamour; he bears an unlucky resemblance to his amphibious namesake, which cannot entirely be masked by lipstick and a thick coat of greasepaint.
But I am happy to report that the Professor’s impromptu Buttercup was, from first falsetto trill to last, a triumph. Near the end of the second act, wherein Buttercup reveals the dark secret around which the plot turns, there was not a dry eye in the house. “She” was also something of a dramatic dynamo, provoking openmouthed astonishment as she leapt onto the bulwarks of the Pinafore, apparently without effort.
See this stunning production without delay. You’ll laugh! You’ll cry! You’ll cheer! And you’ll be telling your grandchildren about it ages hence.
* * *
The three friends digested this in silence for a moment before the Rat said, “That settles the question, I think. He’ll never come home now, not with them all fawning on him like that.” The Rat turned over the page and said, “Oh, wait, there’s more.”
* * *
NOTE ADDED IN PRESS: A short verse just submitted to the Varsity from some anonymous theater-lover sums it up perfectly:
Great actors in greasepaint and limelight
Upon the boards long have troad.
But none can compare with the Buttercup fair
Heart-rendingly rendered by Toad.
* * *
Mole said doubtfully, “There’s something about that ditty. It sounds as if … but surely not. Do you think…?”
“Penned by Toad, of course,” grumped Badger. “That pompous, self-important animal. You’re right, Ratty. He won’t come back, but I’ll send him a letter anyway. We wouldn’t be doing our duty as friends if we didn’t at least try to warn him.”
Badger stood and stretched and announced that it was time for him to be off. “And remember,” he admonished them at the door, “keep a sharp lookout.”
Ratty and Mole waved him good-bye and returned to their comfy chairs.
“Oh, dear,” muttered Mole. He thought about the insolent behavior of the gang of delinquent stoats at the train station. He’d chalked their cutting up to mere rudeness, but what if their loutish behavior had actually been a harbinger of something more ominous?
Ratty spoke reassuringly. “Buck up, old thing. We gave that lot such a tanning last year that they couldn’t sit down for months. They’d never have the nerve to try it
again. More tea?”
That night, Mole lay in his bunk and tried hard to will himself asleep, which, as we all know, almost never works. He got up and silently padded to the kitchen in his dressing gown and prepared himself a cup of warm milk. He returned to bed with an uneasy heart, and tossed and turned in his sheets for a good long while. When he finally did fall asleep, the susurrant murmur of the River gradually evolved into a voice that whispered in his troubled brain, “Stoats … weasels … stoats and weasels.…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Swimming Lessons
In which it is proved that not everyone loves the water as much as a Water Rat does.
“Humphrey, old chum,” pronounced Ratty, interrupting the boy as he tinkered with his design for an aerodynamically improved kite tail. “Mole and I are going to take you out on the River and introduce you to the splendors of the Riverbank.”
“But, sir,” said Humphrey, “I don’t know how to swim.”
The Rat goggled at him. “You don’t know how to swim? Heavens above, what a frightful gap in your education. We must fix that right away. Why, even Mole, the most landlubbered of creatures, knows how to swim. I taught him myself, you know, and now he’s a regular duck.”
“But, sir, I’d rather—”
“Now, now, Humphrey. No need to thank me. Come along. Moly’s waiting for us at the boathouse. Your uncle has all sorts of watercraft left over from his boating phase. Do you remember the boating phase? It came just before the caravan phase, which came right before the motor-car phase, which turned out to be (up until ballooning, that is) the most disastrous phase of all.”
“In what way, sir?” asked Humphrey, reluctantly abandoning his work.
“D’you mean to say you don’t know? That your own relation was sent to gaol for nicking a motor-car?42 Sentenced to twenty years he was, in the darkest, dankest dungeon in the land, from which no man had ever escaped.”
“My own uncle, a gaol-bird?” said Humphrey, perking up. “How absolutely ripping! It just goes to show that appearances can be deceiving. I can’t wait to tell my friends at school.”
“It gets even better,” said Ratty. “He escaped.”
“Escaped?” said Humphrey. “Gosh, I can’t believe it! Why hasn’t Mummy ever told me?”
Ratty replied drily, “I doubt that any of your relations much feel like talking about it. An escape plan was put in place and eventually succeeded, despite Toad’s strenuous efforts to wreck it at every turn. You could say he escaped in spite of himself. Of course, that’s not the way Toady tells it. Ho, no, you’ll get quite a different version from his nibs.”43
“I’m going to ask him about it in my next letter,” said Humphrey. “He’s sending me some fascinating books: botany, chemistry, physiology, all manner of interesting things.”
“That’s good of him,” said the Rat. “But you’ve been spending far too much time with your books of late. Why, just look at you, Humphrey, all pale and wan. We need to get you out in the sunshine, put some color in your cheeks, start you on a program of physical improvement. We’ll build up your physique with rowing and swimming, and then we’ll add some gymnastics. I’m sure you’ll be a champion vaulter. Toads generally are. On alternate days, we’ll work with the Indian clubs and the medicine ball and, let’s see, what else?”
They chattered their way down to the boathouse, or rather the Rat chattered, expounding upon the details of Humphrey’s new program of physical culture. The small toad listened mutely, his heart sinking at the thought of the summer slipping away without his having a crack at finding and repairing Toad’s balloon.
“Here we are,” said Ratty. Various watercraft were neatly stored in rows, along with every conceivable bit of nautical equipment, all the very best on offer, all shrouded in dust, all with a cheerless and unused air. The Mole was busy pawing through piles of paraphernalia and sneezing.
“Good morning, Mr. Mole,” said Humphrey. “Mr. Rat has just been telling me about my uncle’s escape from gaol.”
“Really, Ratty,” said Mole, reprovingly, “the less said about that—ra-hoo!—the better. Ra-hoo! Now, shall we start with the rowboat today? Or perhaps the scull?”
“Too tippy for a beginner,” said Rat, pulling an assortment of oars from the wall and measuring them for size against the tiny toad. “He’ll be in the drink before you know it. And he doesn’t know how to swim, can you imagine? Hand me down one of those cork vests, just for safety’s sake.”
The Rat secured Humphrey in a cork-and-canvas vest, which was much too big for him, and said, “You’ll do. The rowboat to start, I think. Or p’raps the punt.44 Which do you prefer, Humphrey? We might have to cut these oars down for you.”
“Actually,” came a faint voice from within the depths of the vest, “if you don’t mind, I’d rather—”
“You’re absolutely right,” said the Rat. “Let’s start with the rowboat. Standing in the punt’s too much to ask of a novice. Ah, here are some shorter oars.”
(The Rat can be forgiven his enthusiasm for boating, since he’d spent his whole life in, on, or near the River. It was both mother and father to him, sister and brother, shelter and sustenance, company and larder.)
It was only a moment’s work for the Rat and Mole to prepare the small boat, for they were experienced watermen and models of efficiency. When it was time for Humphrey to get in, he clung tightly to the Mole’s arm.
“Sit next to Mole on the cushion and watch me while I row,” said Rat. He pushed them out into the River, where the gentle current serenely embraced their craft.
“Now watch, Humphrey. See how you lean forward and catch the water with the oar? Then follow through like this. Try not to splash too much. It frightens the fish, and they’re all a bunch of nervous nellies as it is.”
The Rat demonstrated while Humphrey huddled in the stern, one paw grimly fastened on Mole’s arm, the other clamped tight to the gunwale.
The party drifted along at a leisurely pace through alternating pools of dappled shade and warm sunshine. The sun sparkled on the rippling water. The breeze bore the ineffable scent of honeysuckle. Meadowlarks trilled their melodious songs. The swifts tumbled in the sky above; the ducks dabbled in the water below. The oarlocks creaked hypnotically as the Rat rowed.
Slowly, gradually, the River began to work its magic on Humphrey. He relaxed his death grip on the Mole (whose limb, truthfully, was going all numb and tingly) and began to look about him. A green leaf eddied by, bearing a smattering of bright red dots which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a party of ladybugs out for the day. A crystalline blue dragonfly hovered above the water; on the bank a passing pheasant saluted them with a shimmering wing.
The Rat sighed deeply, and said, “Ah, yes. There’s nothing so wonderful as simply messing about in boats.”
Mole said, “There’s messing about in balloons, you know, although I’ve given it up myself. Still…”
The Rat soon spied an inlet with a shallow pool that he pronounced a likely spot, and they secured the boat with the painter. Mole propped himself against a tree and opened his new book. It was set on a desert island rather than underground, which was a slight disappointment, but it was nevertheless a gripping yarn of buried treasure and a race to recover it between a daring young lad and a wicked band of pirates.
The Rat lay on the grass on his tummy and commanded his pupil to pay close attention. “Now, Humphrey, concentrate. You move your arms like this”—the Rat demonstrated—“and you kick your legs like this. See? Nothing to it.”
Humphrey watched, and shivered.
Then the Rat led his reluctant charge into the water, first up to the ankles, then to the shins, and then to the knees.
“It’s—it’s a bit chilly,” stammered Humphrey. “P’raps we could wait for another day when the water’s warmer?”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” said the oblivious Rat. “I taught your uncle Toad to swim, you know, and he’s a regular champion, even if he can’t
row for toffee.45 Now, flop forward and start kicking your legs.”
“But what about my specs?” said Humphrey. “What if I lose them in the water?”
“Oh, bother,” said Rat. “I hadn’t thought of that. Better give them to me.”
Humphrey, who without his specs couldn’t distinguish the Rat from the Mole from a tree stump, for that matter, reluctantly handed them over.
“Now, take a deep breath,” said the Rat, “and push off.”
Humphrey dutifully took a deep breath as instructed, and then … nothing. He stood frozen to the spot, the water swirling around his knees.
The Mole happened to glance up from his book at that moment and saw what the Rat in his enthusiasm for all things aquatic could not see, namely, plain stark terror on Humphrey’s face. The concerned Mole said, “Ratty, maybe Humphrey doesn’t want to learn to swim.”
“Nonsense,” said Ratty. “He just needs a nudge, that’s all.” And then the Rat did a thing that some might consider inconsequential and others would consider inexcusable. He gave Humphrey a nudge—just a small one, for encouragement—and Humphrey plunged facedown into the deeper water and, taken by surprise, sucked a fair quantity of the River into his lungs, where it absolutely, positively did not belong.
Oh, the shock and distress poor Humphrey felt at that moment can scarcely be described, to say nothing of the betrayal and anger directed—rightly—at Ratty. Fortunately for all, the cork vest did its job and bore him to the surface, where he spluttered and coughed mightily and bobbed about like, well, a cork.
“Swim, Humphrey,” called the Rat. “Do as I showed you. Go on. Move your arms and legs. Go on.”
Humphrey turned blindly in the direction of the Rat’s voice and tried to flail his way back to shore. The Mole put down his book and stood on the bank. “Ratty,” he said in some alarm, “I think he needs our help.”
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