The Tale of Oat Cake Crag - By Susan Wittig Albert Page 0,80

affectionately at Bosworth, who was surrounded by a babble of little badgers and happy hedgehogs, all of whom were helping him unwrap his presents. It did not, however, make Fritz want to surround himself with little ferrets. An artist, he was a confirmed bachelor. His burrow in the bank of Wilfin Beck was so full of his paintings and sculptures that it was rather like a gallery.

“A delightful sight, indeed,” said Max. He was now employed full-time by Major Ragsdale (Ret.) at tiny Teapot Cottage, in Far Sawrey, but the major gave him weekends off, to spend with Fritz. The two had become fast friends, if rather an odd couple. “Oh, by the way, old chap.” Since he had moved in with Major Ragsdale, Max had begun to sound like a military man. “Have you heard about the aeroplane crash this morning?”

“No!” exclaimed the ferret. “It crashed? What happened? Was anyone hurt? Is it done for? I hope,” he added. “Not that I wish anyone ill. It’s just that the plane is a wretched nuisance. One can’t sleep properly in the daytime.” This was important to the nocturnal ferret, who was making an exception to his no-daytime-outings rule to come to Bosworth’s party.

“The pilot and passenger got a good dunking,” Max said, “but the aeroplane isn’t permanently damaged. The crew is working on repairs.” Max went on to tell Fritz what he had learnt from the major, who had been waiting for the ferry when the aeroplane nosedived into the water, and had shared the news with a neighbor in earshot of Max.

In another corner of the room, the fox was hearing a similar report from Rascal, who had got it (secondhand) from the Dalmatian who rode on the seat beside the driver of the Coniston coach, who had got it from a passenger who had been among the spectators when the wrecked plane was brought in.

“Do they know why it crashed?” asked the fox curiously.

“The Dalmatian said that the passenger said that somebody heard there might have been water in the petrol,” Rascal replied. He grinned. “I can think offhand of a couple of dozen Big People who might have put it there. Can’t you?”

“And they call foxes sly,” said Reynard with a chuckle. “I wonder which of the villagers is the culprit.” Now that they mention this, I wonder, too. When we last saw Roger Dowling, in the company of Henry Stubbs and George Crook, it sounded as if he might be hatching a plot—or might know of someone one else who was doing so.

In another corner, Bailey and Thorvaald, sipping ginger beer, were observing the scene. The dragon had banked his fire as much as he could and was keeping a close eye on his tail, lest he inadvertently knock a picture off the wall, or disturb the spiders assembled in the corner, where they were not so likely to be trodden upon.

The Professor came up to them. “And whooo are yooou?” he asked the dragon. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Well, I can fix that,” Bailey said, and introduced them forthwith. “You two have something in common, you know,” he added with a grin.

The owl eyed the dragon. “Oh? And what is that?” His tone suggested that he did not think that this large scaly beast was anything like his proudly feathered self.

“Why, you can both fly,” said the badger, and went off to wish Bosworth the happiest of birthdays.

The owl and the dragon regarded each other for a moment, pondering this unlikely likeness. The owl widened his eyes and flexed his wing feathers slightly, as if to suggest that there was a basic aerodynamic anomaly here, but the dragon immediately saw the similarity.

“Why, szso we can,” he said cheerfully. “Matter of fact, I’ve just returned from a little flying trip myszself.”

“And I have just flown back across Windermere,” replied the owl. “Quite bumpy out there this morning, actually.”

To his credit, the dragon did not boast that his “little trip” had been an around-the-world flight that had taken him to America, Hawaii, and Siberia, with only short stops for refueling—a distance that would have been impossible for the owl. Instead, he said, “I’ve just been hearing about the posszsibility of some szsort of large creature living in the lake. You wouldn’t have szseen it, by any chance?”

“I believe I have,” the owl replied. “Largish beast, about . . . oooh, about the size of the ferry boat, I’d say. Tail, fooour wings, very noisy. Is that what