The Old Meadow (10 page)

“What's that they're tryin' to catch me with?” whispered Ashley. “Looks like a saucer of corn.” He flitted up a twig or two through the privet hedge—then dropped down amazed. “Halloween, did someone say? It's corn
candy
left over from last October most likely!”

“Do you like corn candy, Ashley?” asked Walt.

“Don't know. Never had none.” The mockingbird purled a chuckle. “One thing I do know, though—we got goofballs back in West Virginia—believe me, we do!—but you sure got your share in Connecticut, too!”

“Shall I bark?”

“Not yet, rub-a-dub-Dubber! Let's have some fun!” The mockingbird flickered up and perched where he was expected to be. He stuck out his tongue and made a sound that wasn't nearly as musical as most of the sounds he made.

“There he is—!”

“I'll climb up—!”

“Help!” Edward fell from his brother's shoulders. “Ooo! Ow!”

“Be quiet!” urged young Alvin.

Too late.

Mr. Budd had been drifting up from his nap. The commotion snapped him wide awake. He roared out of his house like a locomotive, wearing only his underwear. The day had grown hot. “Oh, you Irvins!” But he really did like the Irvins. Especially since that summer, years and years ago, when they'd tried to raise pedigreed Siamese, who all got loose and filled the town of Hedley with pedigreed alley cats. “Two times in one day is too much!”

The fight was unfair. Without much effort, one old man who was overweight and had arthritis proceeded to trounce two men half his age. A good thing did come of it, however: Abner Budd discovered that, in his case at least, righteous indignation could cure arthritis.

“You first!”

Abner whipped a butterfly net over Edward's head. It held him pinned down to his knees and made him look like a crazy beehive, while Mr. Budd marched his brother off—then gave him some hang-gliding help that sent him sprawling into the brook.

“Don't want you to feel neglected.”

Then Abner did the same for Edward.

Young Alvin hadn't waited. He was on the other side, shouting for help: his dad and his uncle were being killed.

“This isn't the end, old man!” shouted Edward, as he picked ferns out of his shirt.

“Oh, isn't it?”

Even when the brook was rushy and full, as it was just now from a recent rain, Mr. Budd knew where the stepping-stones were. He'd put them there, before the Irvins had lived in Hedley. Still only clad in his underwear, he flew across the water.

And the sight of this man who treated a stream as if it were the solid earth amazed and terrified the Irvins. They fled home. Where, after an hour of lecturing, Malvina relented and gave them dinner. But she never stopped nagging, and after two hours the Irvin brothers decided that they had to act, if only to silence their mother.

“What a day,” murmured Ashley Mockingbird. “Well, I'll have tales to tell—if I ever get back to West Virginia. Mmm-
mm!
What a day!”

*   *   *

This day was not yet over. Events went fast. They often do, if they move at all.

Simon, Walter, and Chester had barely gotten home, ambling slowly through the lavender evening, when, with a whir of wings, the mockingbird appeared again.

“Better come back. Quick.”

“Not me.” Simon heaved out his breath as he clambered into his muddiest, most comfortable spot. “I've had enough excitement today.”

“This here is serious.”

“How serious?” Chester Cricket was worried, because Ashley's voice was flat: for once, there was no music in it.

“Better see for yourself.” Without waiting for an answer, the mockingbird flew back to Mr. Budd's cabin.

The cricket and the snake followed, fast.

Around the cabin a crowd had gathered. There was Mr. Budd, the Irvin brothers, young Alvin, and even Grandma Malvina. The wives of the Irvin boys stayed home. When Malvina was out, they could watch TV instead of read. There were also three policemen, and that had been Malvina's doing. When her sons and her grandson had gotten home soaked, she decided the family had been humiliated. And the more she lectured her sons, the more insulted the family became. Edward dialed the police station, but insisted that Allen speak and summon the cops.

Malvina hadn't yet decided whether the Irvins should sue Mr. Budd for all his money—not a promising prospect—or just demand an apology. Of one thing she was certain, though: the world must learn that no one could kick her two sons in a brook and get away with it. Someone else's sons, yes, but not hers! She was the only one who could treat them that way.

It was difficult for the officers. As little boys they'd all played in the meadow—they'd all known Mr. Budd—and now they'd been summoned to, maybe, arrest him.

“Mike Gallagher, you should be ashamed!” Mr. Budd poked the chest of the tallest cop. “Coming over here to hassle me—when these goons tried to steal my bird!”

“Gee, Mr. Budd—” Mike Gallagher began.

“Don't tell him ‘gee'!” Malvina rasped. She had a voice like a draft in a chimney from smoking cigarettes. “Put the handcuffs on him!”

“Mr. Budd,” said Mike, and looked off toward the west, toward Avon Mountain, where the lingering rosy light could hide his blush, “you maybe should come downtown with us.” He didn't actually take off his handcuffs, which were dangling from his belt, but he touched them.

“Attack, you mutt!” shouted Mr. Budd to Dubber. “Don't you care if these ungrateful bums arrest me? I took burrs out of little Mike Gallagher's hair! If I'm in jail—who'll tend my mockingbird?”

“Oh, we will!” offered Malvina sweetly.

Mr. Budd aimed a kick at Dubber, but missed. Lumbago, or else he changed his mind. “You lazy good-for-nothing you! You hear that? They want to kidnap my bird! Where
were
you the first time these imbecile Irvins came round? Just cowering underneath my hedge! And that darn jay! Because even if you—you dumb dog!—couldn't warn me, at least that blue jay usually shrieks.”

That was too much for Dubber: to be told that he'd failed—and like J.J.! When the officers and the Irvins appeared, he'd been munching on a cauliflower. There still were shreds of the white vegetable, spit too, clinging to his lips. In all the excitement and fright—Dubber didn't like either Irvins or cops—he'd forgotten to lick his chops. And the sight of a blue-uniformed human being who might be about to arrest his master made Dubber lose his head. For the first time in years he growled very seriously, and tried to nip Mike Gallagher. But, being Dubber, he missed, of course—just like Mr. Budd—and bit the crease in the officer's pants.

“And look at that!” Malvina wheezed.

“She sounds worse than Simon,” whispered Chester.

“A mad dog!” coughed Malvina. “And foam all over his mouth! Call the pound!”

“Can things get any worse?” Walt wondered.

“Yes, they
can!
” said Chester. “And with these human beings—they probably will.”

Things did get worse. The officers called the dog pound from a neat little phone that they had in their car. And in fifteen minutes a nice white truck from the pound arrived. It looked like a shrunken ambulance. Two men in clean white suits stepped out, said “Hi,” and led Dubber away.

Two men in blue uniforms led Abner Budd to the cop car. He turned, and as Dubber was plodding into his prison on wheels, he tried to shout a few words to his dog. They got trapped in his throat.

SEVEN

Jailbreak—Number One

“We've got to get them out,” said Ashley.

John Robin had returned, and all he said was, “They're still in jail. Both of them. A human jail and a dog jail—the pound.”

Since he had wings, John Robin had been sent off to spy. Chester Cricket didn't like to use a friend as a spy, but Mr. Budd was gone—Dubber Dog was gone—it had been two days, and those who lived around and under Simon's Pool had to
know!
They were frantic. John Robin, who was familiar with all the byways of the town—he wormed everywhere—seemed to be the answer.

“We do have to get them
out!
” said Walt.

“They'd just put them both back in again,” sighed Simon Turtle, with age's weary experience.

There was a round wind blowing, under clouds that were hurrying somewhere. “Round wind” was one of the turtle's favorite expressions. He had used it for years and years. It described a wind—a breeze or a gust, ordinarily, sometimes a steady breath of air—that came from nowhere and everywhere. It blew off the petals of purple irises, shook green reeds, and ruffled the pink of rugosa roses. But everybody, animal and human too, liked the young round wind that circled about them playfully.

John fluffed his feathers. In a round wind, flying was difficult, but he enjoyed being surprised by it. “Simon's right. Those men in uniforms will just come hunting—”

“Tchoor! Of course they'll come hunting, but we can hide them! We've got to get them
out!
” The water got a solid
whop!
It hurt Walter's tail, and the water wasn't changed at all.

“Chester—” began Ashley.

“All right, all right,” Chester Cricket agreed. “If they stay in jail too long, they'll turn into half of themselves. Mr. Budd'll be put in an old folks' home—and Dubber—” The cricket refused to think about that. “But how—
how
do we get them out?”

The wind coaxed thoughts on shells, scales, feathers—a cricket's wing—but it whispered no answers.

“Tchoor!” Walter Water Snake suddenly had an idea. “I'll get them out. The thing I've hated all my life is how much the human beings hated
me!
And all us snakes. But now it pays off!” Walt raised up and glowered down onto his friends. “You're lookin' at a deadly serpent! Har! har! I'll scare the guards, and Dubber and Mr. Budd will go free. Simple—?”

“Oh, simple!” said Chester. “But how are you going to get to those jails?”

“I'll creep, I'll crawl, I'll slither—if necessary, I'll even writhe! But I hate that word. And I'll get directions first. John Robin—where
is
the pound? I'll rescue Dubber before Mr. Budd. They take less time to dispose of dogs than men. John—where?”

“No problem,” said John. “You go six blocks on Mountain Road, take a left at Fisk, and then two blocks, hook a right at Hedley Avenue, but only one block, left at Santell, three blocks, then half a block on Salter Street—and there you are!”

“You see?” Walter splashed some water at Chester. “Not a thing in the world could be more simple!”

“Oh, nothing,” the cricket agreed heartily. “But Walt—let me ask you this—have you ever been out of this meadow before?”

“I crossed Mountain Road once. The grass in front of the Andersons' house looked so nice for basking.”

“Oh, that's a real long journey, all right!”

“And I'm good at north and south—stuff like that,” Walter Water Snake insisted. “I've made up my mind! Here I go—”

A silence held everyone still. It was full of both wonder and fear: Walter Water Snake was venturing out—way outside the meadow. The round wind had spun itself out into nothing by now. All the animals watched as Walt flicked his tail to wave goodbye—not a care in the world—and slithered off.

“That's the wrong way, Walt!” John Robin chirped. “Mountain Road is over there.”

“Oh.” Walter lifted his head and swung it around like a broken compass. “Don't worry, you guys—I have an infallible sense of direction.”

“Tchoor—we all can see,” muttered Chester despondently, as Walter began once more the most important writhe of his life. “John—follow him! And fly above him. Try to chirp him the right way.”

“Okay.”

*   *   *

The afternoon wore on. Then twilight wore on. Then evening wore on. And everyone tried not to show by a word or a cough or a quick look off toward Mountain Road that this day was becoming difficult. But when dark night took hold of the world, everybody gave up pretending and settled down to be downright scared—and in public at that. The night was very cloudy too, and the moon, almost full, was just a pale eye in the sky.

“Where
are
they?” The cricket, at last, couldn't stand it. “It's been hours and hours!”

“The pound is a long way off,” Simon Turtle tried to remind him.

“I've done my darndest! I've done my best!” Without anyone noticing him—a robin can be so subtle, and especially in the dark—John had settled on Chester's log. “And I lost him.”

“John—”

“I got him to Fisk—but then it got dark—and Walter blends in with the dark—and also, the humans were going home—horns honking—the horrible sounds humans make when day's over—their radios blaring! He couldn't hear my chirp any more!”

“John—stop now,” said Chester. “Nobody blames you.”

“I do,” said John Robin, and choked. “I've been looking and looking—under every streetlight—and chirping till my throat is sore! The wings, too. I'll barely make it back to my nest. And what Dorothy will say—me coming back at this hour—I can't even imagine.” Poor John was winded. His wing muscles ached, those miracle things that let him fly. And he felt guilty too, for having lost Walter. “I'm sorry,” his voice drooped sadly down. “I tried, but—”

“Shh! Hush!” Simon interrupted. “I hear panting.”

“Huh-huh—!”

“There it is again!”

“I don't hear anything,” said John, but one note in his voice was hope.

“Hush again! Someone's blundering through those bulrushes—?

“If it's blundering,” said John Robin, “it's got to be—”