The Master gaped in astonishment at the dazed tubby figure seated before him on the grass, its gown hiked up in a most undignified way, its knobby knees on view for all the world to see.
Toad blinked.
“You!” yelled the Master. “Who are you, you horrid little man, and what have you done with Professor Toad?”
“Master,” said Toad after a moment, “it’s me. That is to say, it is I, Professor Toad. Don’t you recognize me? I’ll prove it, just listen. The son of the squaw on the hippopotamus hide is equal to the sons of the squaws on the other two hides.52 Oh, bother,” said Toad, perplexed. “That doesn’t sound quite right somehow.”
The Master bent down. He peered into Toad’s face and then recoiled in shock. “Good gracious,” he sputtered. “Professor Toad, you’re a … he’s a … it’s a … toad!”
“That’s true,” admitted Toad. “But, you know, I never said I wasn’t.” He climbed to his feet, retrieved his cap, and swatted blades of grass from his gown. “Previously Toad of Toad Hall, and now Professor Toad of Trinity College. At your service, sir.” He bowed politely. “I say, have you seen my glasses?”
The Master teetered on the edge of apoplexy and turned purple to his hairline. “A nasty … crawly … vile … toad!”
“Hang on, there’s no need for that,” said Toad, affronted.
“A foul, loathsome, warty toad,” bellowed the Master.
“A baseless lie!” cried Toad. “For your information, sir, I’ve never had a wart in my life.”
The Master said, “I’ve long wondered why you don’t have a chin, and now it all comes clear to me.” He roared after the undergraduates, “Come back, come back here! Come and seize this repellent, revolting, disgusting creature!”
“Oh,” whimpered Toad, “surely that’s a bit harsh. Why, I was only just—” He looked up to see the clutch of students bearing down on him, their gowns fluttering like black flags of doom.
“I can explain everything!” Toad cried, nevertheless leaping to his feet and dashing off in the opposite direction. “It all started out when I was making fireworks, you see,” he called over his shoulder, only to see the wild gang of students gaining on him. The Master, a man of some years, brought up the rear of the pack but was nevertheless exhibiting good form and acquitting himself nicely over the short distance.
“I can explain! Honestly!” wheezed Toad, and then, realizing he needed to save his wind for escape, put his head down and ran grimly at top speed for the Backs and the River Cam.
“Impersonator!” bawled the Master. “Call the porter! Call the police!”
“Charlatan!” bayed the undergraduates. “Stop that toad! Seize him!”
Toad, short of leg and round of torso, ran as he’d never run before. In a wild panic, he inadvertently took the only sensible course left open to him: He vaulted over the railing of the bridge into the River Cam a few feet below, startling the last of the day’s punters.
He rose to the surface, hacking and coughing. His pursuers leaned over the bridge, shaking their fists and calling him unprintable names.
“Ha!” he jeered. “You’ve been outfoxed by the Toad ag—” he had just enough time to shout before his waterlogged gown dragged him under. Wriggling and kicking, he managed to extricate himself from its folds and bobbed to the surface once more. To his dismay, he saw his pursuers running down from the bridge and fanning out along the towpath beside the river, which was, in truth, narrow enough to be described as a mere brook. A mere brook from which an undergraduate with a strong arm and a boat hook could, without even wetting his feet, pluck the most reluctant of toads.
And although Toad dearly wanted to explain his circumstances, and be reinstated into the fold of academia (or at least hurl some choice insults at his tormentors), he realized that sticking around to do so would only bring him a large ration of grief. Taking a deep gulp of air, and pushing off with a powerful frog kick, he swam away down the Cam for all he was worth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Very Bad News
In which our heroes learn of Humphrey’s fate.
It was a grim and exhausted trio that convened before the fire in the library of Toad Hall that night, worn and filthy.
“Not a trace,” muttered Mole. “Not a jot, not a tittle.”53
“But that’s a good thing,” said the downcast Rat. “Isn’t it? If he … if he were hurt, or … or worse … we’d have found some kind of sign.” The others looked at him in silence. He added uncertainly, “Wouldn’t we?”
“The thing I don’t understand,” rumbled Badger, “is why the gardener’s second-best wheelbarrow is missing. It’s got to mean something, but I can’t for the life of me figure it out.”
“And why haven’t we heard from Toad?” said Mole. “His own flesh-and-blood gone missing, and we haven’t heard a word. P’raps we should send him another telegram tomorrow.”
They stared in dismal silence at the flickering fire, which crackled and sparked cheerily, oblivious to the heavy gloom that permeated the three friends.
Finally Badger said, “We’ve done everything we can for today. I propose we all spend the night here and get up early in the morning for a fresh start.” The Badger, a creature of habit, loathed spending the night away from the familiar comforts of his own burrow. The other two were well aware of this and rightly interpreted his volunteering to stay as a statement that he was, in fact, worried sick.
“Right,” said Rat dispiritedly. “Off to bed it is.”
They trudged up the grand staircase to the guest wing. Before turning in, Mole looked in on Humphrey’s silent bedroom one last time, as if hoping that the mute objects tidily stacked there, the chemistry set, the many books, even the kite, could somehow reveal their young master’s plight.
* * *
The next morning found them poorly rested and ill-tempered. They sat in the breakfast room and, despite having no real appetite, forced themselves to down many bowls of thick porridge and cups of sugared tea, fortifying themselves for the long day ahead. There was still no telegram, no letter, no word at all from Toad.
“It’s bad enough we have to worry about Humphrey,” complained Ratty, “but now we have to worry about Toad as well.”
“No, we don’t,” snapped Badger. “I refuse to worry about that boneheaded animal. Let him worry about himself. We need only concern ourselves with Humphrey.”
“But, Badger,” protested the Mole, “what more can we do? We’ve searched everywhere.”
Badger fixed his gaze on Mole with a lowered brow. “We have not searched everywhere. We have not searched the Wild Wood.”
A millipede of fear skittered down the Mole’s spine. He shuddered and said vehemently, “Surely he wouldn’t have gone there. He knows better.”
The Rat said, “Badger’s absolutely right. We have to go in. Don’t worry, Moly. You and I will stick together. We’ll arm ourselves to the teeth, and we’ll be sure to get out before dark. That’ll be all right, won’t it, Badger?”
Badger, who was the only one of them large enough and formidable enough to travel through the Wild Wood alone, nodded gravely.
Rat led them into the weapons room and distributed to each of them a stout cudgel, a pistol, and a thick belt in which to tuck them. Then it was down to the kitchen for a packet of sandwiches and a flask of tea. Just as they were finishing their preparations, a tentative knock sounded on the kitchen door.
“Humphrey!” cried Rat. “He’s home!” He leapt to the door and flung it open. But instead of Humphrey, there stood a small, bedraggled weasel.
“What do you want?” said the Rat crossly. “We’ve no time for you at the moment. Come back another time.”
Mole, who had a few days earlier noted the weasel and Humphrey cavorting on the lawn with a kite, said not unkindly, “Come in, come in, but be quick about it.”
The weasel quaked with fear at the sight of the armed band, fearsome as any brigands. He said faintly, “P-please, sir. I’m not sup
posed to be here. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Speak up,” said the Mole.
“It-it-it’s—” stammered the weasel.
“You’re Sammy, right? Come along, now. Out with it,” said the Mole, shaking him a bit more roughly than he meant to, for he was a very worried Mole indeed.
The shaking did the trick, loosening the words that had stuck in Sammy’s throat. “It’s Humphrey, Mr. Mole, sir. He’s in the Wild Wood.”
“You know that for a fact?” said Badger ominously.
“Oh,” Sammy whispered, “I’m not supposed to tell you. There’ll be such trouble.”
“There’ll be real trouble in a minute if you don’t tell us what you know,” snarled the Badger, advancing on the shivering animal. Sammy, faced with such a dreadful apparition, took the only sensible course of action open to him and fainted clean away. He came around a few minutes later to find the Mole flapping a tea towel in his face.
“There, there,” said the Mole soothingly. “Mr. Badger didn’t mean to frighten you.” He threw a warning glance at the Badger, who sat stolidly at the far end of the kitchen table, where he’d been banished by Mole. “Now, sit up, there’s a good boy, drink this, and then tell us everything you know.” He thrust a mug of hot milky tea into Sammy’s paw and made encouraging noises for him to drink up. After some fortifying sips, and with many a worried glance at Badger, Sammy was able to speak again.
“Humphrey and me made a plan, see,” he said. “It’s about Mr. Toad’s balloon, what come down in the middle of the Wild Wood.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mole, wishing the conversation would take any turn except this one.
Sammy nodded and said, “Yes sir, that’s ri’. And Humphrey and me was going to bring it back here and go halvsies in the reward that Mr. Toad put up. Split it down the middle, fair and square. But the balloon’s awful big and heavy, so we borrowed a wheelbarrow.” He added quickly, “We only borrowed it, you understand. We was going to put it back. But when we finally got to the balloon, there was the Chief Weasel and the Under-Stoat waiting for us.”
“Poor Humphrey,” exclaimed Rat. “He must have been terrified.”
“Not so bad, sir,” said Sammy. “They acted all friendly. Said we was their honored guests and all. Then they was asking him all sorts of questions about the balloon and could he make it fly. ’Course he can, I told ’em. My friend Humphrey knows all about balloons and inventions and such,” said Sammy proudly. “I told ’em that.”
Badger spoke, his voice deadly soft. “You didn’t. Did you?”
Sammy went all pale and wobbly.
“Badger,” murmured the Mole, “please let me handle this. Go on, Sammy. Don’t mind Mr. Badger.”
“S-so then they asked him what he might need to fix it. It’s the Chief Weasel’s birfday coming up, and he mentioned how he wanted to celebrate with a balloon ride. They was acting so nice and polite, and they insisted we stay for lunch, and such a terribly nice lunch it was. And then … and then … when it was time for us to be getting back…” He sniffled.
“Go on,” urged the Mole.
Sammy erupted in a sudden fountain of tears. “They said he had to stay! They said he had to fix it. He had to make it fly, or else they’d never let him go!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Toad on the Road
In which Toad, who must find his way home on limited brainpower, has a brush with the law.
Toad dreamt he was back at Toad Hall. He dreamt he was sleeping in his own featherbed, nestled in a snug pocket of fine linen sheets. He dreamt that there weren’t scratchy bits of hay working their way up his sleeves and down his neck, that he wasn’t itching all over in the most dreadful way, that the urgent need to sneeze wasn’t tickling his nose. But as with every other dream, this one had to end. He woke up sneezing and found himself in a haystack. There were indeed bits of hay working their way down his shirt, and he was in fact itching, horribly, all over. “Oh, drat,” he groaned, yawning and scratching. “Oh, bother.”
He hauled his squat figure down from the stack and tried to shake out his clothes.54 The night before, climbing into the hay had seemed like such a good idea. Now he knew it for what it was: a terribly bad idea. He scratched himself furiously and looked about in the half-light. The farmer’s house in the distance was showing signs of life, and wasn’t that a dog he heard, barking to be let out? A huge, slavering beast, no doubt, who breakfasted on toads.
He hurried away across the field.
* * *
Noon found the weary Toad trudging along a dusty footpath, the midday sun bearing down upon him like an anvil. Heretofore he had always looked upon the sun as his friend, a delightful companion during the all-too-brief summer months. But now it bludgeoned him with sadistic tropical fury and mocked his tortuous progress homeward. He’d never in his life been so thirsty and hot. What wouldn’t he give just now for a small rain cloud, if only one could be ordered up? Why, half his fortune, willingly. He’d never in his life been so hungry and tired. What wouldn’t he give for a simple mug of tea and a humble fried egg sandwich? The rest of his fortune, gladly. He came at last to a road and a signpost. To the left lay Retchford and East Retchford; to the right, Wopping Crudworth. Not one of these towns was familiar to him.
“Oh, this is all too much,” he cried. He shook his fists at the sun and yelled unprintable curses at it, ordering it to go away. But the sun completely ignored him.55
“Why me? Why me?” he yelled.56 He threw himself to the ground and pounded the hot dust with his fists and kicked his legs and rolled about most disgracefully, all the while weeping petulant tears. None of which did him the slightest bit of good. After a few minutes, he realized he was making a spectacle of himself, and he sat up, covered in powdery dust from head to toe, looking somewhat spectral.
“Think, Toady,” he murmured to himself. “Think, think, think.”
It would have been nothing for Professor Toad to analyze the situation and extricate himself from it, but it appeared that Professor Toad had departed forever, leaving behind plain old Mr. Toad, who had spent his life thinking as sparingly as possible. He applied himself for a moment or two, but the effort was such a strain on his dim brain that it gave him a headache.
“My head hurts, and my feet hurt, and my stomach is growling so loudly I can’t hear myself think. But if I don’t think my way out of this, I will sit here forever and ever. They will find me ages hence, the shriveled remnant of a toad. Oh, it really is too much.”
He pondered his dilemma. What would Moly do? What would Ratty do? What would Badger—no, no, he shuddered. Best not to insert oneself into the mind of Badger; no telling what lay there. But Moly and Ratty, his dearest friends, his oldest compatriots, what advice would they give him? Before he realized it, he found himself thinking hard on the question. After a few moments of this, his friends’ voices whispered the answer in his head: “You must find the River, Toad. Not just a river, but the River. Find it, and it will show you the way home.”
Toad jumped to his feet, exclaiming, “Of course! That’s it! What a clever toad am I. Why, I’ll just find the River.…” He looked about for a sign pointing the way, but alas, there was none. He frowned and thought some more. He could sit in the road and wait for a passerby, but he might be spotted for a fugitive. He could pick a direction and strike out at random, but he ran the risk of putting more distance between himself and his home. He idly surveyed the stone wall on the other side of the road, over which a tall wooden stile passed.57 The voice of Ratty in his head urged, “Go on, Toad, climb to the top of the stile.”
“But it’s hot,” Toad whined, “and I’m tired. Why should I exert myself in the heat?”
Mole’s voice scolded, “You’ll be able to see the countryside from there, that’s why, you ninny. Now, stir your stumps.”
“Oh, all right,” said Toad, ungraciously. He looked first one way down the road, and then the other, as one should always do. Seeing no motor-car
or pedestrian, he trotted across and hauled himself up the rickety steps. Puffing, he surveyed the scenery, and what did he see?
“Nothing,” he moaned, “not a blasted thing.”58
That is to say, no River. There were miles of breathtaking landscape stretching from one horizon to the other, but no River.
“Not a thing,” he whimpered. And then … and then … was there something in the air? Something … familiar? The barest hint—more a sense of nostalgia than an actual smell—of something known to him? Toad sniffed tentatively, sampling the points of the compass. If he’d been lucky enough to be born with whiskers, they would have quivered on end.
Yes! There it was again. The merest thread, a filament of scent, vaguely reminiscent of mud and marsh and rich, rank sediment. He sniffed again. Deep within him tingled some sympathetic vibration, some primitive instinct, some ancient sense of home and safety.
Yes! The River! He was sure of it. It was coming from straight ahead, down the hill.
“Oho!” he cried. “I’ve done it! Home lies that way, I can feel it in my bones. Am I not the cleverest of toads? Why, they were lucky to have me at Cambridge. Am I not the brainiest, the most gifted and talented toad in all the world? And let’s not forget handsome. And modest.”
And with this and many other disgustingly boastful sentiments, he struck off across the fields with a jaunty gait, quite the restored Toad, puffed up with vanity and conceit, overflowing with braggadocio, his thoughts of hunger and fatigue washed away in a warm bath of self-congratulation, nauseous in degree.
Twice he had to crawl into the hedge to hide from strangers, which took him down a peg or two, but he soon came to a village. The streets were strangely quiet and deserted, and he was able to sidle his way around the houses and shops until he came at last to the post office where, stuck on a pillar for all the world to see, was a picture of a toad’s countenance. Printed above it in large letters was the single word WANTED. Printed below it, in equally large letters, was the word FUGITIVE.
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