DEEPLY STIRRED, WE STARED INTO the fire, recalling the oft-told tale of the Tellmice.
They lived about six hundred years ago, in William Tell’s time, when Switzerland was ruled by the cruel Gessler. The tyrant forced Tell to shoot an arrow at an apple on top of his young son’s head. Tell’s aim was true, and his son was unhurt. He escaped Gessler’s men, and took to the hills. From there he led the Swiss patriots in their fight for freedom.
In Tell’s cellar lived a tiny tyrant, Heddmann. Aided by foreign soldier-mice, he became a dictator.
He even set his hat on a pole, as Gessler had done, and imprisoned the mice who would not bow before it.
But one day Heddmann went too far—he proclaimed a fifty percent tax on cheese! The enraged mice packed their belongings and fled to the hills.
When Switzerland won its freedom on August 2, 1291, many climbers set out to tell the Tellmice, but no one was ever able to find them.
Basil broke the silence. “Breathes there the mouse who has not longed to find the Lost Colony? I’ll take the case, Hagerup. I’ll question the Faversham sisters. They live in Käsedorf, where the mountaineers meet. I’ll form an expedition there. And I’ll leave the Professor to the policemice of London.”
He paced the room. “The Tellmice of 1291 were probably helped by the Snowmice. Once I find today’s Snowmouse, I’ll find today’s Tellmice. And I shall leave no stone unturned to accomplish this!”
“Would that I could join you!” said Hagerup. “Alas, I cannot, being engaged in highly dangerous research on my new book, Inside Cats.”
“No doubt it will be a mousterpiece,” said Basil.
After Hagerup had gone, Basil said, “I’d like one last stab at learning Ratigan’s whereabouts—I’ll consult a stoolpigeon. Come along, my dear Dawson!”
We were soon down at the docks, where scores of pigeons strutted about.
Basil called to one who stood apart. “Psst! Cyril!”
The stoolpigeon sidled over. “Good day, Guv’n’r. Needin’ any information?”
Basil gave him a plum pudding Mrs. Judson had made.
“I’m interested in the Professor’s whereabouts.”
Cyril flew off. While we waited, Basil told me the bird had once been a carrier pigeon for the Crown. Caught selling secrets to foreign birds, he’d been dismissed in disgrace and had become a stoolpigeon.
He was soon back, with surprising news—he had seen Ratigan coming out of our own cellar, at 221B Baker Street!
“ ’E gave me a message for ye, Basil. But it’ll cost extra—I want your deerstalker cap!”
“Here, take it,” said the detective impatiently. “I’ve others at home. Quickly, Cyril—the message!”
“Ratigan said, ‘Tell that snoopy sleuth I stole the arrow and sketch by trickin’ Mrs. Judson!’ ”
“Heavens!” cried Basil. “I fear for our mousekeeper’s safety! We must leave at once!”
A two-horse van came by, and we hitched a ride.
I looked back at Cyril, proudly parading in Basil’s deerstalker. Poor pigeon! The others snatched it from him, passing it from beak to beak until it was torn to tatters.
Mrs. Judson was safe. A messenger mouse had come for the arrow and the sketch, saying we had sent him.
“Think!” said Basil. “Did the messenger have a high, bulging brow, and deepset eyes?”
“The very one, Mr. Basil! He spoke the King’s English, and he was so polite, too.”
“My dear mousekeeper, that messenger was none other than Professor Ratigan, my mortal enemy!”
“Gracious!” She placed her paw over her heart.
“It is well that you did not oppose him. He is cruel and ruthless. Had he nibbled your excellent cheese soufflé, you would now be cooking for crooks!”
He heaved a deep sigh. “I recall every last detail of the arrow and the sketch, but I regret that the Professor has them. I have broken up his gang. He is bent on revenge, and will do all in his power to keep me from finding the Lost Colony!”