King of the Vagabonds Read online

  ‘A remarkable story,’ was the response. ‘And so you’ve brought your dinner with you as a token of your desire to adopt our ways?’

  Put like that it does sound ridiculous,’ Sammy said hopelessly. ‘If only the other cats were here, they could explain—’

  ‘It seems, then, that they must have had little faith in your intention of sticking to this strange agreement.’ The dark tabby was mocking him. ‘It also seems that you have a very great deal to learn about the way we live if you think that this small piece of meat could be shared out amongst the whole company!’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think that,’ Sammy assured the cat, feeling that he was looking more stupid by the moment. ‘I couldn’t carry very much. It’s a long way. But I took the largest piece I could manage to – er – show I’m true to my word and—’

  ‘And now,’ interrupted the cat, ‘you’d better go back, I think, to wherever you came from and get some more, don’t you? There are quite a lot of us here and, since I always have first choice, even this piece won’t be of any use to those you term “my friends”.’

  Sammy’s heart sank. ‘But – but – there won’t be any more,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Won’t be any more?’ echoed the tabby. ‘And you think this derisory morsel is a sufficient mark of your esteem for the starving creatures you expect to teach you all their skills and cunning?’

  Sammy lapsed into silence. He wished he had never returned. These animals were a separate race from those like himself, Stella and Josephine. Why had he thought he could enter their world? Why could not he be content with. . . . His racing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of Pinkie.

  ‘So you did come back, Sammy?’ she said, and Sammy thought – hoped – that he could detect just a suggestion of pleasure at his return.

  ‘Sammy?’ muttered the dark tabby. ‘Sammy, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Brute,’ Pinkie informed the young male.

  ‘I know,’ said Sammy.

  ‘How do you know? Did I say so?’ growled the King Cat.

  ‘I – I – guessed,’ Sammy answered.

  ‘He’s brought us all an offering,’ said Brute to the little white cat. ‘But I’m afraid only I shall appreciate its flavour.’ And he grabbed the lump of meat, chewed it once or twice and then swallowed it hastily.

  At once, as if this were a signal, all Sammy’s acquaintances of the morning began to appear. They looked about and murmured to each other, glancing in Sammy’s direction in an accusing way. They were disappointed not to find a scrap or two of Sammy’s rich fare left for themselves. Sammy felt he had let them down.

  ‘I could try again tomorrow,’ he offered.

  ‘What’s the good?’ returned Mottle sourly. ‘You could never bring enough for us all to taste.’

  Sammy had no answer to that. But Brute had. He had been doing some thinking.

  ‘This sort of food is no luxury for you, I suppose?’ he asked the young cat grudgingly.

  ‘Oh no,’ Sammy answered. ‘It’s my normal diet.’

  ‘Well, how very fortunate for you. And how do you think you would survive here on our starvation rations?’

  ‘I – I’d do the best I could,’ said Sammy. ‘I’d do as you all do. I’d soon learn. And you haven’t starved, have you?’

  ‘It would seem like starvation to you, compared with your feasting,’ Brute remarked. ‘And, let me tell you, some of us have starved. All of us you see here – we’re just the remnants.’

  ‘The – remnants?’

  ‘There used to be more of us,’ Pinkie explained. ‘I told you about my brothers and sisters, and there were others, too.’

  Sammy had not the experience to understand. In his life food had been brought whenever he had wanted it. Shelter and warmth, too, were taken for granted. How could he comprehend the hardships, the struggle for survival, that these animals faced every day of their lives? The fasting, the discomfort, the monotonous, exhausting battle with the seasons?

  ‘At least let me try,’ he said plaintively. He shook his soaking fur, scattering a spray of raindrops around him. The other cats, by contrast, took no notice of the wet. They accepted it as they had to accept everything else which was beyond their control, with a sort of dumb resignation.

  ‘No, you could never break free,’ Brute growled scathingly.

  ‘How do you know if you won’t put me to the test?’ Sammy remonstrated.

  Brute had him where he wanted him. ‘Right, Tabby with the Silky Fur,’ he said, using the words in a disparaging way, ‘let’s see how long it takes you to lose your well-groomed appearance. We’ll find out how vain you are. And as for us—’ he looked round at the vagabonds ‘—we’ll smarten ourselves up a little. Then we can meet each other halfway.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How will we do that?’ cried the cats all at once.

  ‘Easy,’ said Brute. ‘We swap places.’

  A stunned silence ensued. Then the vagabond cats began to talk and cry out excitedly. They saw they were in for some real fun.

  Sammy, however, asked with misgiving, ‘What do you mean – swap places?’ Already he was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Brute sneered. ‘You eat our food. We eat yours.’

  The full implication of what he had set in train had not struck Sammy before. Now he shuddered visibly. ‘But – but – it’s impossible,’ he wailed. ‘There are too many of you. And what about my mistress? She doesn’t know you. Why would she feed you?’

  ‘Because she’ll think she’s feeding you, won’t she, simple Sammy?’ Brute answered.

  ‘But I’m only one cat,’ protested Sammy. ‘And you’re – you’re—’

  ‘Rather more than one,’ Scruff said comically.

  ‘We take it in turns,’ Brute said with feigned patience, as if talking to an idiot. ‘Each day a different cat has your food. You leave it – we eat it. And each day we bring you something in return from our larder.’

  The cats were highly amused. It was the perfect plan. They could not stop chattering. Sammy could only stare at them. He was speechless. It was quite preposterous. How could all this go on under the noses of Stella, Josephine and Molly, let alone their mistress?

  ‘It won’t work,’ he muttered at last. ‘It can’t work.’

  ‘Why not?’ Brute growled. For the first time he sounded really angry.

  ‘It – it – just won’t,’ Sammy mewed. ‘There are other pets in my mistress’s keeping, and we’re fed together. How do I get round that?’

  ‘Up to you,’ said Brute. ‘You’ll have to exercise your ingenuity, if you’ve got any. And if you haven’t, you wouldn’t survive here for very long. So it’ll be a real test for you, won’t it?’

  Sammy was horrified. What could he do? He saw Pinkie looking at him. In her eyes was a challenge. Sammy turned away miserably. For the second time he realized he was no match for these creatures. Why had he undertaken this crazy venture? It was too late to back out now. Yet there was no one he could turn to for advice, since the whole business had to be conducted in secrecy. He crept away through the pelting rain. A voice called him back. It was Brute, of course.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘I – home, I suppose.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  Sammy explained.

  ‘Oh, so you’re from that cosy quarter? The garden with the shed, you say? Simple. Tomorrow evening, then, you keep watch. One of us will be along; soon as it’s dark. Don’t forget!’

  How could he forget? Sammy wandered away, oblivious now of the wet. He scarcely paused at the roadside before running across, heedless of danger. He could only think of Stella, Josephine and Molly and what they would say about his stealing the meat. And then, worse still, he had to think of a plan for the next evening. If he did not, there would be trouble of a sort he dared not contemplate. This was the result of his meddling. N
ow he had started something he could not control. As he went past the chicken run towards his home fence he stopped abruptly. He could hardly bear to re-enter his own garden. Something broke into his thoughts – a sound, slight but insistent. After a while he realized what it was: the squeaking of a mouse. Tiptoe was calling him.

  9

  Exchanges

  Tiptoe was inside the chicken coop, picking up scraps of grain. The wire mesh was no barrier to a hungry mouse. The hens were asleep, and so was the cockerel. Tiptoe saw a shadowy figure crossing in front of the enclosure. He recognized Sammy at once.

  ‘Sammy! Look at me. I’m in here.’ he called. When the cat failed to respond, Tiptoe squeaked louder. He saw Sammy pause and search round for the sound.

  ‘In here, Sammy. Amongst the feathered ones. Tee hee.’

  Sammy trotted over and peered through the wire. ‘Didn’t expect to see you,’ he murmured distractedly. ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘One of my sources of supply,’ Tiptoe answered.

  Suddenly Sammy perked up. An idea struck him. Tiptoe could help him. The mouse was no pet; he knew something of that other world of the vagabonds. Perhaps he would have some ideas.

  ‘You look drenched,’ Tiptoe remarked to the tabby. ‘I’m surprised to see you out in this.’

  ‘There is a reason,’ Sammy replied. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. I need your advice. Have you finished eating?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve never finished eating. Tee-hee. But wait a bit I’ll come out.’ Tiptoe pushed his tiny body easily through the wire mesh. ‘We can’t stand here,’ he said. ‘What about the shed? Is it safe?’

  ‘Er – no,’ Sammy lied. ‘No, it isn’t. Stella’s on the prowl.’

  ‘Over here then,’ said Tiptoe, ducking into a flower-pot lying on its side. ‘You get under that plant.’

  ‘What’s the use?’ grumbled Sammy. ‘It’s as saturated as I am.’

  ‘Please yourself. What do you want to ask me?’

  Sammy collected his thoughts. Then he poured out the story of his new acquaintances the vagabonds, of Brute, of the bargain and how he had to prove himself. ‘Now I don’t know what I’m to do,’ he finished up. ‘These half-wild cats are going to come into my garden expecting to be fed. But how can they be with my mother and sister around – and Molly? And if they’re not fed what will they do? Oh Tiptoe, can you think how I’m to get out of all this?’

  The mouse was very still and quiet, something quite foreign to his nature. His mind was racing. He had realized at once the implications for himself and his relatives if the stray cats entered Mrs Lambert’s garden. His own comparatively quiet life would be disrupted in the worst possible way. These animals were not friendly pets; they were hunters. And he and his kind were the hunted – they would never know a moment’s peace again. He had told Sammy he liked adventure, and did enjoy the sort of mild risks he ran every time he entered Mrs Lambert’s cottage. But that was quite different from this. His life would become fraught with the most awful peril. He had to think of a way of helping Sammy that would, at the same time, help himself and the other mice.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘you certainly seem to have bitten off more than you can chew, don’t you? That’s what comes of going into Quartermile Field.’

  ‘What – what do you mean?’ Sammy cried. ‘I haven’t—’ He broke off as the whole thing suddenly became clear. Of course, it made sense. His mother’s warning. Molly’s explanation of it being out of bounds; the other sort of life. He knew now. He had been to Quartermile Field. Now he was caught up by its strange force, changed by it, excited by it yet repelled by it too. And he was bringing its influence with him back to his old peaceful, comfortable home.

  Tiptoe saw that he understood. ‘Too late for regrets,’ he said sharply. ‘We have to think how to outwit the – er – vagabonds.’ He pronounced the word with the utmost distaste.

  ‘There’s no time,’ Sammy moaned. ‘It’s to begin tomorrow night.’

  ‘You deserve to go hungry for the trouble you cause,’ Tiptoe told him. ‘But here’s what you must do. You must keep out of sight all day. When your mistress prepares your food you don’t show up for it. If I know her ways she’ll leave it around for a while in the hope of your coming to claim it. If the food’s outside there’s no problem, because the strange cat will eat it when it’s dark. Your mistress won’t know it’s not you.’ He paused, as a thought struck him: ‘But supposing she leaves the food inside?’

  ‘She only does that when it’s wet – like tonight,’ Sammy answered.

  ‘You’d better wish for dry weather then,’ Tiptoe said wryly. ‘And, whatever you do, don’t show yourself at all.’

  ‘I’ll roam about,’ said Sammy. ‘Perhaps I’ll stay in here. But what about the next night and the next. . . . They’re coming one by one.’

  ‘Same thing,’ Tiptoe replied. ‘Keep out of sight. As long as the food disappears, your mistress will go on providing it. Am I right?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sammy. ‘But what of Stella and Josephine? They’re going to be suspicious if they never see me.’

  ‘No good worrying about that,’ answered the mouse. ‘It’s only a matter of time before one of them – or the dog – will encounter one of the strangers. They can’t be forever asleep.’

  ‘Molly sleeps indoors at night,’ Sammy informed him. ‘So she’ll be out of the way.’

  ‘Well, remember what I said,’ Tiptoe admonished the young cat. ‘Keep out of the way tomorrow and say nothing to anyone. And now I’d better go and warn all my friends.’ He ran off through the ceaseless rain, along paths and tunnels known only to the mice. Sammy was left alone to ponder for the first time on the real danger in which, quite unintentionally, he had placed his little friend.

  At last, tired of the wet and discomfort, the young tabby scaled the dividing fence and jumped into his own garden. Outside the shed he shook himself. He crept in, hoping to find Stella and Josephine asleep. But they were not.

  ‘Here comes my greedy brother,’ came Josephine’s voice in the darkness.

  ‘Sammy?’ This was Stella’s voice now. ‘You’ve become quite a wanderer.’ There was no mention of the meal-time incident.

  Sammy did not reply. All he wanted was to dry off and go to sleep.

  ‘Why did you do it, Sammy?’ his sister continued. ‘Our mistress seemed quite upset.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sammy answered grudgingly. ‘I suppose for a bit of fun, that’s all.’

  ‘It wasn’t much fun for Molly,’ Josephine persisted.

  ‘All right, Josephine. It doesn’t matter,’ said her mother. ‘Molly didn’t miss the meat so it’s not important.’

  Sammy thankfully began to lick himself. What he had done that evening was trivial compared with what was to come.

  Early the next morning he left the shed and his mistress’s garden behind. He would have liked to have seen Molly and given her an explanation, but it was too early for the old dog to be around and, in any case, he dared not risk it. Mercifully the rain had stopped. The ground and every plant of course, were still soaked, but all was beautiful to look at. The late summer sun was reflected in every dazzling water-drop and the air was fresh and cool and heartening. Sammy ran briskly along. He had decided to spend the day in Belinda’s meadow. His flagging spirits were revived by the morning and a refreshing sleep. Tiptoe had found a solution to his dilemma and he – Sammy – had been to Quartermile Field and back. He thought about the waste ground. It was not so terrifying. If what he had encountered was all there was to the place, he really did not know what all the fuss was about.

  Belinda was standing in the centre of her lush green field with her head bent to the succulent vegetation. She was enjoying an early morning feed. Despite the recent downpour her coat seemed as clean and silky as ever. She was so absorbed she did not notice Sammy’s approach. Eventually she looked up, chewing meditatively.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘it’s the cat who
sought his father. And did you find him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Sammy replied. ‘But I did find a lot of other cats.’

  Belinda put two and two together. ‘You’ve crossed the road?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised you didn’t find Beau amongst his cronies,’ the goat went on. ‘He often is.’

  ‘I don’t know who my father’s cronies are,’ Sammy said, wondering if there could be another group of cats somewhere, ‘but they’re certainly not the animals I spoke to. None of them knew of him.’

  ‘Strange,’ Belinda mused. ‘Still, the ways of cats are mostly beyond me. You can be very inscrutable.’

  Sammy began to look for a less drenched patch of ground where he could sunbathe. He felt he really needed to stretch out in the sun after the chills and damp of the previous day, and it would be a pleasant way of whiling away the time. He selected a good place where the grass was fairly short, lay down and dozed. From time to time he opened his eyes or changed his position, and sometimes Belinda wandered over to have a word. So the day passed.

  In the afternoon Sammy became aware that he was feeling frightfully hungry. There was no light titbit, no dish of milk on offer here. He would simply have to go without. He got up, stretched, yawned, and sauntered to a pool of rainwater for a few laps. He wondered what the vagabond cat would bring for him to eat that night.

  At last it was dusk and Sammy knew it was time to make tracks. He thought of Mrs Lambert preparing the animals’ meals and he felt so hungry he almost weakened. But he knew he had to carry this difficult arrangement through. He went as far as the garden with the chicken-run and settled down to wait in a secluded corner. Luckily the weather had remained dry.

  The cockerel was patrolling his territory as usual. Now and then he cast a glance at the young tabby who was crouching nearby. Suddenly he stopped and screeched out: ‘Learnt to fly yet?’

  Sammy looked away disdainfully. He was in no mood for such nonsense. But the cockerel evidently thought he had hit upon rather a clever joke. He continued to call periodically in his piercing voice. ‘Learnt to fly yet, cat?’ And, as if providing himself with the answer he knew would not be forthcoming, he varied this with: ‘Cats can’t fly! They only climb.’ His cries were monotonous and irritating, and in the end, exasperated with the bird’s stupidity, Sammy moved to a quieter spot.