King of the Vagabonds (12 page)

‘No,’ Tiptoe interrupted firmly. ‘We couldn’t. I don’t travel to those regions.’

‘I understand.’

‘But I think you’ll be back one day, despite what you say,’ the mouse said firmly. ‘I’m sure you’re not cut out to mingle with those cat tramps.’

‘Everyone thinks that,’ Sammy said blithely. ‘I don’t care. I shall prove you wrong.’

‘Maybe. But Sammy, will you give me your word? I have to know that it’s safe for me to come to ground.’

‘I’ll make sure it is; don’t worry. No animal will come here if there’s no food to be had.’

‘Good. I’ll trust you, then.’

‘I hope you will.’

‘Well – good luck.’

‘Good luck, Tiptoe.’

In the morning, Sammy stayed on in the shed whilst his mother and sister roamed the garden. He wanted dearly to show his affection for the last time to his good mistress, but he thought her kind words and caresses would make him regretful at leaving her. And there was always the chance that she might shut him in, after his recent absences, to prevent his wandering off again.

Later, Molly’s grizzled nose sniffed at the shed door. She came in, wagging her tattered old tail.

‘Oh Molly,’ Sammy said softly, ‘you’re the one friend I shall miss most of all.’

‘I feel the same about you,’ she murmured.

‘I – I’ll never forget you.’

‘Of course not – nor any of us here,’ said Molly. ‘And Sammy, don’t be afraid to come back here. It’ll always be your real home. Our mistress will always be—’

‘I know,’ Sammy broke in quickly. ‘You think I’m making a mistake. But I have to do this, you see. I can’t help myself. It’s in my blood.’

‘Yes. But, let me caution you. Watch out for B – Beau. He’s a jealous, proud creature. And he won’t know who you are.’

‘We’ll get along, I’m sure, if we ever do meet,’ Sammy said confidently.

Molly looked at him long and hard. She seemed to be on the point of saying more, but gave him a loving lick instead across his crossed-out face, and then waddled sadly away. Sammy almost wavered. Then he steeled himself, ran out of the shed and up, over the fence and away.

Behind his back as he ran on the cockerel called out: ‘Run, run, run. But you can’t fly!’

Sammy made himself comfortable in the hedgerow where he had devoured the rabbit with Brindle. As the late August sun dipped towards the horizon, he stirred. Now Quartermile Field beckoned. Sammy went slowly across Belinda’s meadow. The goat watched him but gave no greeting. The cat reached the road and waited for the passing vehicles to disappear. He ran nimbly across and was at the bomb site at once, threading his way through the vegetation. He traversed the waste ground, remembering the route to the tall wire fence which Pinkie had shown him. The high wire mesh fence reared up in front of him, and Sammy looked for the way through. He found the hole and glanced round for Brindle. He had not yet come but dusk was closing in.

Sammy decided to get on the right side of the wire, amongst the wild cabbage and other vegetable plants. He wanted to see the rabbits coming. He soon noticed Pinkie was there before him, lying low. She ignored him. Brute was there too. Sammy guessed the other cats were dotted about the place, all in hiding. He wondered where Brindle was.

From the far end of the old allotments, where they adjoined open country, Sammy noticed some movement. A group of some dozen or so rabbits, of various sizes, were spilling into the area in fits and starts. They stopped often to check all around for safety, their ceaselessly twitching noses working hard to identify every scent. They came on, closer, closer. . . . A large one, accompanied by a youngster, paused by a cabbage plant. . . .

Brute shot from cover and pinned the adult rabbit to the ground. The cat’s muscular shoulders produced a
grip from his front paws like a vice. Almost at the same instant the youngster was easily caught by Pinkie. Sammy saw the remaining rabbits scatter. They dashed away in all directions, their white powder-puffs of tails showing vividly in the early evening light. Now the other cats showed themselves as they raced in pursuit. Sammy realized that if he himself did not move at once his chance would be lost. He singled out the nearest animal and bolted after it. But he was a mere novice in the knowledge of rabbits’ ways. He was no match for the animal’s speed or tactics. Its zigzagging course confused him and when he stopped to look about him, all of the uncaught rabbits had disappeared.

Pinkie and Brute had soon despatched their victims and were beginning to drag them away to cover. Sammy felt rather foolish at his failure, but he swallowed his pride and ambled toward the cats with a contrived air of nonchalance. Brute dropped his prey and sprang out at Sammy, lashing out with his claws. His right forepaw seared a path through Sammy’s face fur, narrowly missing one eye. It was a vicious scratch and the young tabby fell back in consternation. His face smarted acutely.

‘Don’t think to come begging to us,’ snarled his attacker.

‘I’d no such intention,’ Sammy protested. ‘But you didn’t wait to find out.’

‘I don’t believe in waiting,’ Brute rasped. ‘Waiting’s a fool’s game.’

All this time Pinkie remained silent. She continued about her business of removing her quarry.

‘You’ll have to learn a better set of moves if you don’t mean to starve,’ Brute scoffed.

‘I shall,’ said Sammy. ‘Brindle is going to help me.’

‘Help?’ Brute echoed mockingly. ‘I think you’re mistaken.
It’s each cat for himself here and devil take the hindmost. That’s our philosophy and you’d better adopt it, if you mean to live like us.’

The other cats were beginning to gather around. Some had been lucky in the hunt – some had not. Sammy was conscious that Brindle was not amongst them.

Now Pinkie spoke up. ‘Sammy is a fine-looking cat. But he’s not up to our tricks yet.’

‘No, nor will he be,’ grunted Brute. ‘Cats brought up in soft ways don’t make good hunters.’

Sammy felt the uncomfortable truth of this. He went on the defensive. ‘When a cat’s forced to learn new ways, he must. Mustn’t he?’ he added hesitantly.

‘He must, mustn’t he?’ Brute mimicked him sarcastically. ‘Unless he starves himself first.’

‘I think he’ll look after himself all right,’ said Patch. ‘He can fight, anyway – we’ve seen that.’ He was not afraid of Brute.

‘I’ve seen nothing,’ Brute growled. Then he turned sharply to Sammy again. He was reminded of something. ‘I’m told you’ve decided your rich pet food is no longer on offer to the animals here.’ He spat the word ‘pet’. ‘By what authority?’

Sunny answered for him. ‘He turned up his nose at what we offered in exchange. Said it was unfair.’

‘Is this correct?’ Brute snapped.

‘Yes,’ said Sammy. ‘You vagabonds took advantage of me.’

Brute stared at him. ‘
We
took advantage of
you
?’ he whispered. ‘But you are the one with all the advantages, my soft friend.’ There was a menace in his words.

‘Not any more,’ returned Sammy stoutly. ‘I’ve left them all behind.’

Pinkie chipped in. ‘Who eats your food now?’

‘There will be no food if I don’t return.’

‘And what of tonight?’ Brute rasped. ‘Is there good rich food going to waste?’

‘Mottle is on her way to eat it,’ Sunny said.

‘Then I’ll stop her,’ Sammy declared. He remembered his vow to Tiptoe, but said, ‘My old mistress must not be fooled any longer. The arrangement’s over.’

‘Is it now?’ Brute hissed. ‘Well, you’d better go and see about it then, hadn’t you?’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he rushed to the hole in the wire fence through which Sammy had passed, and lay across it. Sunny the ginger cat, who disliked Sammy, took up his station at another gap.

‘It seems your way out is blocked,’ Pinkie murmured. She was excited by the threat of a conflict and longed to see what Sammy would do.

The young tabby was angry and determined Tiptoe should not be put at risk by a failure on his part. He looked at the towering wire fence. It was a daunting barrier but he knew he had to scale it. There was one thing in his favour. An elder tree grew close on the other side. If he could pull himself up to the top of the fence, he could jump from there on to the top branches of the elder and so climb down that way. Brute and Sunny waited. Pinkie, Patch and Brownie watched the newcomer. Only Brindle and Mottle, the tortoiseshell and white, were missing, and Scruff, who could not hunt rabbits. Sammy calculated his chances. Whatever the result should be, he knew he had to attempt the climb.

He ran at the fence and leapt on to it. The wire whipped back and forth. When it stilled he started to haul himself up, using the power of his shoulders and putting his paws through the holes while gripping the links with his claws. He mounted steadily and presently arrived at the top. Now he had the more difficult job of heaving himself over to prepare for his leap. He gathered his feet
together under him. The fence rippled alarmingly. Sammy felt himself overbalancing but, at the last moment, he sprang out wildly and landed awkwardly, but safely, on the elder tree.

‘He can climb too,’ Patch muttered.

‘He
can
climb,’ Pinkie echoed emphatically.

But Sammy did not linger to hear her praise. He scrambled down the tree and raced off to intercept Mottle. He could not know that she had already entered Mrs Lambert’s garden.

12

Quartermile Field

Sunny was annoyed that Brute had allowed Sammy to get away. ‘You could have stopped him easily,’ he said in a flattering tone.

‘Of course I could,’ Brute answered. ‘But he earned his passage.’ There was a grudging respect in his voice. Sunny noticed it and disliked Sammy the more.

‘The time hasn’t yet come,’ Brute went on, ‘when Sammy and I will have to face each other.’

The other cats marked his words, knowing full well what they meant. Pinkie felt a fresh thrill of excitement tingling in her veins at the prospect. Brute returned to his prey.

On the other side of the fence, deeply hidden in the rank weeds, Brindle had watched and heard everything. Brute’s appearance on the scene had driven him into hiding. He had not dared to appear as Sammy’s comrade in the King Cat’s sight. But comrade he was in his heart. And, after this latest scene, the ‘soft’ young tabby was fast becoming his hero. None of the vagabond cats, not even Brute, had ever climbed that fence.

Sammy ran on, desperately hoping Tiptoe was not in one of his adventurous moods. His concern so absorbed him that he narrowly missed being hit by a bicycle as he sprinted across the road. A din broke out before he had got much
farther on his way, and it was a din emanating from one of the gardens. A dog’s barks and a sound of squabbling angry cats rent the air. Sammy thought he recognized those rather wheezy barks.

A short time later he saw Mottle, the tortoiseshell and white female, running towards him fearfully. She did not heed him and would have passed him by.

‘Stop!’ cried Sammy. ‘What happened?’ He had to know.

Mottle skidded to a halt and panted, ‘So – it’s you. I only just escaped.’ She seemed to think Sammy was to blame. Then she explained. ‘I went for the food and was attacked by two cats and a great black dog. Why weren’t you there?’

Sammy could see what had happened. In his absence, Mottle had not checked if the garden was empty before rushing in. She had not known, or had forgotten, about the other animals who shared his old home.

‘You know why I wasn’t there,’ he told her. ‘You saw my fight with Brindle. You shouldn’t have gone.’

‘I wish I hadn’t,’ she snapped. ‘The dog might have killed me.’

‘No,’ said Sammy. ‘She wouldn’t have done that. She’s not savage. She merely wanted to frighten you off. You don’t belong there.’

‘No, and I’m thankful for it,’ was Mottle’s retort. To the vagabond cats, dogs were their fiercest enemies.

‘Come on,’ Sammy said with some sympathy, ‘I’ll walk back with you.’

A scared look returned to the female cat’s eyes. ‘Back – where?’ she whispered.

‘To Quartermile Field, of course.’

Now Mottle was puzzled. ‘But I thought—’

‘Never mind what you thought,’ Sammy interrupted. ‘My home is now the same as yours.’