All this took much less time than it takes to describe, and before the little creature had reached her there was a second ‘pop’!
‘Crikey, there’s another! And another! And another!’ said John. ‘It’s like a machine-gun going off “Pop! Pop! Pop!” ’ One by one the line of studs running away down the middle of the road rose from their holes and scuttled up to Rosemary, till she was surrounded by a bouncing horde of them: their glass ‘eyes’ glinting back and front as they all jumped up and down, as a dog does when it is pleased to see you, and all of them twittering, like a cage full of sparrows.
‘You see,’ said Rosemary with lifted chin. ‘It proves I’m right. They aren’t like cats!’
‘Or much like crabs either,’ said John shortly.
‘I don’t see why they have to be like anything,’ went on Rosemary. ‘I think they are just themselves. I shall call them ...’ She stopped and looked thoughtfully at the swarming mass at her feet. ‘I know. I shall call them the Scrabbles ... because they are a bit like crabs, and they ... sort of scrabble with their paws.’
‘All right. Call them what you like,’ said John in an exasperated voice. ‘They hop about so, I can’t count them, but there must be dozens of the things! I suppose you’ve made your point. P’raps they do look more like crabs than cats. But what are we going to do with them now?’
The first flush of Rosemary’s triumph at having proved John wrong for once had begun to ebb away.
‘It’s going to be a bit awkward if they are prancing about all over the place when it gets dark,’ went on John. ‘How are cars to know where the middle of the road is? Can’t you make them go back again?’
‘I suppose I can try,’ replied Rosemary doubtfully. She thought for a moment, and then she said to the Scrabbles in her best polite voice: ‘Of course we are both very pleased to have met you, but hadn’t you better be going home now? I mean back to your holes?’ She made flapping go-away movements with her hands. The Scrabbles stopped bouncing, and shuffled together in a tight little group, and their twittering dropped to a sad little moan. Then, as if they had come to a decision among themselves, they sat firmly down where they were, their front eyes glinting up at Rosemary, and their back eyes, on which of course they were sitting, protected from the dust and dirt of the road by their back paws which they folded underneath them.
‘Well, that hasn’t worked,’ said John.
‘Could we pick them up one by one and put them back in their holes?’ said Rosemary doubtfully. But she made no move to do it.
Reluctantly John stooped down, and gingerly stretched out his hand to the nearest Scrabble. Just as he was about to pick it up, quick as lightning, it turned and nipped him on the thumb.
‘Ow! That hurt!’ he said.
The creatures were silent now, but very watchful.
‘Well,’ said John. ‘I don’t see what else we can do. Maybe they’ll go back of their own accord if we leave them to it. Let’s go home,’ he went on. ‘I vote we put off going to Tucket Towers till tomorrow. It must be getting frightfully late.’
Rosemary agreed. They turned to go back to Highdown with a feeling of relief. But the relief was short lived. They had only gone a few yards before there was a shrill, excited twittering, and the Scrabbles came streaming after them, their feet pattering on the hard road with a sound like the keys of forty typewriters all typing together.
‘That’s torn it!’ said John. ‘If they want to follow I don’t see how we can stop them.’
‘But if they come home with us, what shall we do with them? And what on earth will Uncle Zack and Mrs Bodkin say?’ said Rosemary. ‘If we tell them they are road studs come alive, they’ll have a fit. Isn’t there somewhere we can hide them till we can think of some plan?’
‘There’s probably some ghastly law about stealing road studs,’ said John gloomily.
‘Let me think,’ he went on desperately, his fists clenched against his forehead. ‘I know,’ he said at last. ‘Once we’ve got them home, we can shut them in that old shed at the bottom of the garden, where Uncle Zack used to keep hens. Nobody ever goes there.’
‘But we can’t go through the village with a pack of Scrabbles squeaking and squawking behind us!’ said Rosemary.
‘Well then, we shall just have to go round the village. I think I can find the way. But it’ll take much longer, so we’d better get going. Come on!’
They set off at a brisk pace, with the Scrabbles, twittering excitedly, streaming behind them.
8. Un-wishing
IT was a weary, untidy pair who at last reached home. It took a great deal longer than they expected, to find their way round the village. Once, they got lost in a small wood, and had to crawl through a thicket to find the path again. Twice, they had to climb a wall. Rosemary’s half-hope that they would lose the Scrabbles on the way came to nothing. As they reached each obstacle, their twittering grew a little agitated, but after some excited scurrying to and fro, they squeezed themselves over, under or through everything in their way, to join John and Rosemary the other side, squeaking with renewed vigour at their cleverness.
Once, when they were on a well-marked path, they heard someone coming towards them. The only way the Scrabbles could be persuaded to hide in a rather muddy ditch was to crouch down in it themselves, till the danger was past.
It was nearly dark when they reached home.
‘Just as well,’ said John. ‘Uncle Zack wouldn’t notice what we looked like anyway, but Mother Boddles will want to know exactly how we’ve got in such a mess if she spots us before we can clean up a bit.’
‘As soon as we’ve shut the Scrabbles up, we can sneak in through the side door,’ said Rosemary.
It was easier said than done to persuade the creatures to go into the shed. When they tried to shoo them in, they stood stock still, muttering suspiciously.
‘It’s no good,’ said John. ‘It’s you they always follow: you’ll have to go in first, then nip out quickly when they are all inside and I’ll slam the door behind you.’
It took quite a lot of courage for Rosemary to walk into the dark shed with the Scrabbles twittering round her feet. She could not see them clearly, but she could feel them tickling her ankles as they jostled their way in beside her. When a quick glance over her shoulder showed that the last one was through the opening, before they realized what she was doing, she turned, and with a flying leap escaped from the shed. Instantly John slammed the door behind her. Rosemary leaned against it with a sigh of relief.
‘Good old Rosie!’ said John.
‘But I feel such a pig!’ said Rosemary. ‘Tricking them like that when they were trusting us. Listen! They’re squeaking so unhappily. Will they be all right? Do you think they’re hungry?’
‘Goodness knows,’ said John. ‘But what on earth do Scrabbles eat?’
‘We found a hedgehog once in the garden at home, and we fed it on bread and milk,’ said Rosemary doubtfully. ‘We might try that.’
‘All right, but we’ll have to wait till after supper. I expect they’ll have calmed down a bit by then. We’d better have a good tidy up first. We’re pretty muddy from that ditch.’
‘I’ve been thinking all the way home,’ said Rosemary, as they washed their hands. ‘I think I know how it happened. The Scrabbles I mean. ...’
‘Well, go on, clever!’ said John.
‘Do you remember when we pulled the purple cracker at the bus stop?’ said Rosemary. ‘I was wearing the Golden Gew-Gaw, and when I said “I wish I could fly”, I did a little way, but then I came down, smack.’
‘So what?’ said John.
‘I was wearing it again when we had that silly row about the cat’s eyes, and when I said “I wish they’d come alive”, they did. I think it’s a wishing ring.’