‘And because you didn’t trust him enough to tell him who you really were,’ said John. ‘But he’s sorry now. Mrs Witherspoon punished him because he told Grisana about Carbonel, without her permission. She plaited his whiskers. And once she said she would plait Carbonel’s, if he wouldn’t do what she wanted.’
‘What!’ said Calidor, rising to his four paws. ‘Plait my father’s whiskers? Never! Now listen to me! Grisana thinks that I shall go to his rescue ... and she is right. But not when she expects it! I shan’t wait till he has been taken prisoner to Broomhurst. You say we have till moonrise tonight before Mrs Witherspoon plans to hand Carbonel over to Grisana?’
John nodded. ‘Tucket Towers will be surrounded by a troop of crack Broomhurst cats well before moonrise, ready to pounce as soon as Mrs Witherspoon sets him free.’
‘Then most of their attention will be fixed on Tucket Towers,’ went on Calidor. ‘They will expect no opposition. In the meantime, with an army of Fallowhithe faithfuls, I shall advance secretly and attack them from behind. Grisana must be routed once and for all.’
‘Yes, but what about Carbonel?’ asked Rosemary.
‘That is where you come in,’ said Calidor coolly. ‘While we fight to the death outside and distract attention, you will somehow get hold of the key.’
‘Yes, but I say ...’ began John. Calidor took no notice. ‘Release my father,’ he went on, ‘and then, of course, you will take your orders from him.’
‘We’ll do anything we can to help,’ said Rosemary hurriedly. (She was afraid from John’s red face that he was going to explode at what he called Calidor’s bossiness.) ‘We shall be there, a bit before moonrise.’ Luckily at this point they were interrupted by Miss Dibdin.
‘I thought you two were in a hurry to get back to High-down?’ They turned to her with surprise, having almost forgotten she was there. ‘I’ve just heard the Town Hall clock strike two.’
‘Two o’clock? Heavens! The Sale begins at half past. Come on, Rosie,’ said John, getting to his feet with a clatter.
‘One question before you go,’ said Calidor. ‘How is my dear little Dumpsie?’
‘Dumpsie? Her paw is much better ...’ began Rosemary, when she was interrupted by a loud cat voice behind her.
‘And who is it as talks so free about my daughter, Wellingtonia?’
They turned to see the tousled head of an old cat, peering down at them over the top of the tin-can mountain. Her pepper-and-salt-coloured fur stuck out in all directions, but her whiskers curved bravely, and her moth-eaten tail rose at a jaunty angle. ‘Oh, it’s you, young Calidor!’ she said.
‘It is I,’ said Calidor graciously. ‘And these are John and Rosemary, the young Hearing Humans I told you of, who have taken Dumpsie in, and bound up her wounded paw.’
‘For which I gives a mother’s heartfelt thanks,’ replied the cat. ‘A good kitten, my Dumpsie, though I sez it myself. I heard a clatter of cans just now, enough to waken the Great Puss Himself, and I sez to myself “Strangers!” I sez. “Best see if it’s friend or enemy.” Only those as learns to walk soft-footed lasts long in the Dump, my dears. Now, would you be going back to Wellingtonia?’
‘As soon as we jolly well can!’ said John.
‘Then would you take a little something as a present for her? There was me just saying to myself as I was taking home my supper, how Dumpsie would have licked her chops at the smell of it!’
As she spoke, she stooped, and picked up something from between her front paws. Then, stepping carefully from tin to tin, testing her weight on each one before trusting herself to it, she joined them in the hollow with hardly a sound.
‘Of course we’ll take it ...’ began Rosemary, then she hesitated. ‘It’s a bit smelly, isn’t it?’ she went on, as she picked up the unsavoury morsel between a reluctant finger and thumb.
‘Ripe, dear, just how she likes her haddocks’ heads,’ said the old cat.
‘Oh, come on, Rosie!’ said John. ‘We must go! Put the pongy thing in a tin or something, there are plenty to choose from, and get on the broom. This time I’m going in front. I’ve made up my rhyme. I know I’m not much good at poetry,’ he added, going rather pink. ‘I hope it will do.’
‘Remember, we meet tonight at moonrise!’ said Calidor, as John and Rosemary and Miss Dibdin mounted the broom. ‘Give my love to my one and only Dumpsie!’
‘And tell her to mind her manners!’ added the old cat. ‘A bit quick on her answers she is.’
‘All aboard?’ cried John. ‘Then let’s go!’ He paused a moment, then he said in a loud voice:
‘To Uncle Zack
Please take us back!’
‘Brief but businesslike,’ remarked Miss Dibdin.
There was a slight pause, while Rosemary wondered if the broom would obey such a bald command, but the handle began to vibrate again, and it rose steeply into the air.
‘Farewell, and a thousand thanks go with you!’ called Calidor after them, as the broom straightened out and made for Highdown.
20. The Motto
THE return flight to Highdown passed off without further adventure. As they flew over the roundabout, they all three peered down in search of Mrs Witherspoon.
‘I can’t see anything pink there now,’ shouted Rosemary.
‘Nor can I, but I think I saw the remains of the tricycle,’ called John. ‘Wherever can she be? — I say,’ he said, as they sped on, ‘more clouds ahead and it’s beginning to rain. We shall get simply soaked!’
‘Not if you tell the broom to fly above the rain clouds,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘It won’t like its twigs getting wet.’
‘Up! Up!’ cried John, clapping the broomstick with his knees, and it responded gallantly. Soon they were flying in brilliant sunshine, the tumbling clouds, so dark and grey on their underside, glistened white and bright as sugar icing from above. The country below was completely hidden, and it was not till some time later, when the broom began to lose height, that they guessed they were nearing home. Soon they were surrounded by the damp grey mist of the rain cloud once more.
‘I wish you’d told the broom to land us at the bottom of the garden,’ said Rosemary. ‘You simply said “Take us to Uncle Zack”, and he may be anywhere; having a bath, or crossing the road ...’
‘Not now, you owl,’ said John. ‘The Sale will have started, I should think, so he’s sure to be in one of the showrooms.’
‘Which may be even more awkward,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘It may be full of customers.’
‘They’ll have a fit if they see us come swooping in on the broom,’ said Rosemary.
‘So undignified for an elderly school teacher!’ complained Miss Dibdin.
‘Well, it can’t be helped now,’ said John. ‘I did wonder about the garden, but I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with it except “pardon”, and I was blowed if I was going to apologize to any old besom!’ The broom bucked uncomfortably at this. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he went on hurriedly.
They had dropped below the clouds now, and were being well and truly rained upon. The roof of Roundels was racing up to meet them.
‘Hold tight! And keep your heads down!’ yelled John, as the broom dived suddenly. It swooped through the open front door, turned sharply to the left, overturning the umbrella-stand as the twigs swished round, and landed with a clatter, exactly as it had been commanded, at the feet of Uncle Zack. It so happened that he was standing by Mr Sprules, with his back to the room, studying some papers on a table which had been pushed against the wall. Neither of them saw the broom’s arrival; they only heard it, and turned quickly to see Miss Dibdin struggling to her feet.
‘My dear madam!’ said Uncle Zack, hurrying to give her a helping hand. ‘I trust you are not hurt?’
‘No, no,’ she replied rather breathlessly. ‘Only a little shaken.’